Lucky Me: My Life With--and Without--My Mom, Shirley MacLaine Read online

  Lucky Me

  Lucky Me

  My Life with—and without—My Mom, Shirley MacLaine

  SACHI PARKER

  FREDERICK STROPPEL

  GOTHAM BOOKS

  GOTHAM BOOKS

  Published by Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

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  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.); Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England; Penguin Ireland, 25 St Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd); Penguin Group (Australia), 707 Collins Street, Melbourne, Victoria 3008, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty Ltd); Penguin Books India Pvt Ltd, 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi–110 017, India; Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd); Penguin Books (South Africa), Rosebank Office Park, 181 Jan Smuts Avenue, Parktown North 2193, South Africa; Penguin China, B7 Jiaming Center, 27 East Third Ring Road North, Chaoyang District, Beijing 100020, China

  Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  Published by Gotham Books, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  First printing, February 2013

  Copyright © 2013 by Sachi Parker and Frederick Stroppel

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Gotham Books and the skyscraper logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

  has been applied for.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-61656-7

  Designed by Spring Hoteling

  Insert photographs on pages 2–3 copyright © Look magazine; middle photograph on page 5 copyright © Getty Images/CBS Photo Archive; middle photograph on page 7 and top photograph on page 8 copyright © Getty Images/Ron Galella Ltd.; all other photos courtesy of the author.

  While the author has made every effort to provide accurate telephone numbers, Internet addresses, and other contact information at the time of publication, neither the publisher nor the author assumes any responsibility for errors, or for changes that occur after publication. Further, the publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  This is a work of nonfiction. However, the names and identifying characteristics of certain individuals have been changed to protect their privacy, and dialogue has been reconstructed to the best of the author’s recollection.

  Penguin is committed to publishing works of quality and integrity.

  In that spirit, we are proud to offer this book to our readers;

  however, the story, the experiences, and the words

  are the author’s alone.

  ALWAYS LEARNING PEARSON

  To Arin and Frankie

  CONTENTS

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Humble Beginnings

  Chapter 2

  Of Mockingbirds and Fox Gods

  Chapter 3

  On Location

  Chapter 4

  Charters Towers

  Chapter 5

  From Here to Zagreb

  Chapter 6

  “You’re on Your Own Now”

  Chapter 7

  Into the Wild

  Chapter 8

  Flight

  Chapter 9

  La Vie Bohème

  Chapter 10

  The Good Doctor

  Chapter 11

  Man in Space

  Chapter 12

  The Acting Bug

  Chapter 13

  “That’s George McFly?”

  Chapter 14

  Family Feeling

  Chapter 15

  Domestication

  Chapter 16

  The Lord and the Ring

  Chapter 17

  Don’t Take It Personally

  Chapter 18

  Shut Up and Deal

  Acknowledgments

  Pangloss sometimes said to Candide, “There is a concatenation of events in this best of all possible worlds: for if you had not been kicked out of a magnificent castle for love of Miss Cunégonde: if you had not been put into the Inquisition: if you had not walked over America: if you had not stabbéd the Baron: if you had not lost all your sheep from the fine country of El Dorado: then you would not be here eating preserved citrons and pistachio-nuts.”

  —Voltaire, Candide

  PROLOGUE

  Mom, is there something going on that I don’t know about?”

  We were driving back to Malibu. It was a spring afternoon, and we were cruising along the 405, heading up from San Diego. The year was 1982.

  Mom had been quiet as usual, deep in her own thoughts. She would point out a scenic highlight here and there: “Isn’t that beautiful,” she’d say, sighing, with the matter-of-fact serenity of someone who had seen the world several times over and knows all its secrets.

  I was thinking, too. There was something on my mind. Something concerning her and Dad. It had been in the back of my head for a long time, much longer than I ever knew, and now suddenly it had rushed forward with startling urgency.

  Why I was thinking about the subject at this particular moment, I couldn’t say. My life had just come to another one of its dead-end moments: a relationship gone bad, a possible future cut short, everything in turnaround. The new love of my life had turned out to be a disappointment. In fact, he had turned out to be something of a sociopath.

  And Mom had driven down the coast to rescue me.

  That hadn’t been the original plan: I’d invited her down to San Diego ostensibly for the purpose of sharing the exciting news about my engagement to this marvelous man. Privately, however, I knew he wasn’t so marvelous. In fact, I knew I was making a big mistake, and I didn’t have the strength to walk away from it without help.

  Mom, who could spot a bullshit situation a mile away, was just the hero I needed. She stepped into the motel room, sized up my unsavory fiancé in an instant, and said, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  So we were on our way back home. It was a two-hour drive up the coast to Malibu, which gave me ample time to ponder the often ridiculously bad decisions I had made in my sputtering romantic life. Over the years, I seemed to have developed this pronounced habit of seeking out, or being sought by, men of a distinctly ugly character. These were not merely the stereotypical selfish boors you saw in sit-coms and beer commercials; no, they were profoundly deceptive, manipulative, and immoral men who would drag me headlong into a series of emotionally damaging, physically compromising relationships. Why was this always happening to me? What had plunged me into this “smart woman, foolish choices” cycle of masochism?

  Maybe it was all this dwelling on the dark complexity of relationships that brought me around to my big question: “Mom, is there something going on that I don’t know about?”

  She looked over at me with a quizzical look, an indulgent smile. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean, between you and Dad.”

  She frowned slightly. The subject didn’t appeal to her. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to talk about Dad; she just couldn’t see how he mattered in any present equation.

  “Nothing’s going on. We’re fine.”

  “I don’t mean rig
ht now. I mean…Well, you know, he’s in Japan, and you’re here, and you never see each other…” They had been living apart for almost thirty years now, on opposite sides of the ocean.

  And that was fine with Mom. “It’s an excellent arrangement. I recommend it for any marriage.” Now, I don’t want to suggest that Mom had any hostile feelings toward Dad. She loved him, more than anyone or anything, but she didn’t need him by her side every day. Once or twice a year was more than enough.

  “No, but…I feel like there’s something going on, something that you and Dad haven’t told me, and it’s something really important.”

  “There’s nothing important,” she said in a distant voice. Followed by a silence. This meant that there was something.

  “But I can feel it. It’s something really big.”

  “You’re imagining it. You have an overactive imagination, you know that.”

  I took a deep breath. I was taking a risk now. “I don’t believe you.”

  She didn’t answer for a moment. I couldn’t read her face—I wasn’t sure if she was going to let it drop entirely, or if she was measuring a particularly devastating reply.

  Finally she spoke: “I’ll tell you when we get home.”

  So we continued up the San Diego Freeway in silence. Now it was confirmed—there was something—but I would have to wait another two hours for the big reveal. She had a great knack for showmanship.

  The suspense was exquisite. What could it be? Would this be one of those life-changing revelations that finally puts the whole world into focus for me? Or would it be a total anticlimax?—“I couldn’t deal with your father’s snoring.” Or, most likely, would she come up with some deft evasion at the last minute?

  There was no way to tell with Mom. Something unknowable lurked at her very center. She was constantly coming out with books and magazine interviews promising insights into her inner self, and there were, to be sure, plenty of candid, sometimes shocking details. Oh, she always delivered. Still, like any accomplished magician or striptease artist, the more she revealed, the more she concealed. Just when you thought you had her in your sights, you blinked and she was gone.

  So the fact that she might tell me something truly revelatory left me feeling a little uneasy. Did I really want to know this? Was I ready? Should I just have let sleeping dogs lie?

  We finally arrived in Malibu, and went up the front walk in silence. Above us loomed the porch-balcony where Mom had had her first encounter with extraterrestrials. According to her, there was a knock on the balcony door, she opened it, and there they were. They didn’t stay for long; they were just passing by.

  She never told me what they looked like, or what kind of spaceship they had, or how they had come to learn perfect English. Only that, because she was an Enlightened One, the aliens had chosen her as a conduit to relay their messages to the rest of the world.

  I never doubted that this had happened. I saw no reason not to believe that there might be life forms on other planets; and if they ever did come to Earth, why wouldn’t they look up Mom right off the bat? She was just the type an extraterrestrial would have cozied up to.

  Once inside the house, Mom went straight to her study without a word. She opened a closet door; inside, on the floor, was an old brown safe. “What’s that?” I asked, but she didn’t answer. She was intent on milking every last bit of drama out of this.

  She hunched down over the safe and very carefully worked the dial, twisting it back and forth like a professional safecracker. She kept looking back over her shoulder to make sure I wasn’t taking note of the combination.

  Finally there was a click, and the safe fell open.

  Inside was a rectangular tin box, the kind in which you might find cookies at Christmas. Mom held this box in her outstretched arms, as if she were bearing a sacred relic on a pillow. With a nod, she bade me follow her into the bedroom.

  She pointed to the bed. I sat down, and she placed the cookie box beside me. She slowly lifted the lid.

  Inside the box was a stack of old, yellowed telegrams—some, I saw, dating as far back as 1956.

  “Read,” she said. “This will explain everything.…”

  Chapter 1

  Humble Beginnings

  A karesansui is a style of Japanese Zen garden, developed by Buddhist monks. It’s a dry or rock garden; there are no flowers, just sand and moss. Traditionally there are fifteen stones in this garden, and they are so carefully arranged that, at any given point in the garden, you can see only fourteen of them. You can never see the fifteenth stone. But you know it’s there.

  I moved to Japan when I was two years old.

  This should be an undisputed fact—it definitely happened. I was there—but through some curious quirk of misinformation (which, oddly, my mom never corrected, and over the years has often encouraged), most sites on the Internet contend that I was six years old when I moved.

  This age confusion arose perhaps because my mother shot the film My Geisha in Japan in 1962, when I was six, and it may have been assumed that she became so enamored of the country that she left me behind, to soak up the benefits of its extraordinary culture.

  But I was already there. I’d arrived in 1959. There’s a picture of me stepping off the airplane at Tokyo Airport, and I’m unmistakably a child of two. So that should settle the question.

  I went to Japan to live with my father, Steve Parker. He was a businessman-entrepreneur, and he had his operations in Tokyo.

  Mom stayed behind in Los Angeles because, well, she was busy. She’d just been nominated for an Academy Award for her performance in Some Came Running, and she was getting ready to do Billy Wilder’s The Apartment with Jack Lemmon. In the meantime she would work on Can-Can, the Cole Porter musical, with Frank Sinatra and Maurice Chevalier. It was not a great film, but it had its diversions. Perhaps its most memorable moment came when Soviet premier Nikita Khrushchev visited the set during filming. Mom got to dance the can-can for him, tossing the back of her skirt in his face. He found the spectacle immoral. “Humanity’s face is more beautiful than her backside,” he stodgily philosophized. I doubt he was singling out my mother in particular, because, at age twenty-four, she looked fabulous from any angle.

  In any case, she had a lot on her plate—she was fast becoming a celebrity of the first order—so it was naturally inconceivable that she would give it all up and move to Tokyo with Dad and me. That much I got. But why would she so easily give me up? That was more of a mystery. Especially in that prefeminist age, when mothers were supposed to cling to their children with the ferocity of lionesses.

  Was I a particularly unmanageable child? I don’t think so. On the contrary, we seemed to get on very well together. There was a picture shoot done for Life magazine, which showed the two of us, me and Mom, in numerous cavorting and playful poses, including the famous cover shot of us wearing strings of pearls on top of our heads and puffing up our cheeks like blowfish. We were two peas in a pod, a couple of show business hams. The text had Mom expatiating at length on the joys of motherhood: nothing could have prepared her for the sense of fulfillment, the deep well of emotion, and so on and so forth.

  Given her parental pride, it was all the more puzzling that she would just have let me go. Obviously, she had great faith in my father’s child-rearing abilities, but still, there must have been another reason.

  Well, the untold secret story—at least until my mother’s Hollywood memoir My Lucky Stars was published in 1995—is that I had to be taken out of the country, as a safety precaution. Because my freedom—perhaps my life—was in danger.

  In those days, Mom was an honorary member of the legendary Rat Pack crew: Sinatra and Dean Martin (her Some Came Running costars), Sammy Davis Jr., Peter Lawford—the whole gang. She palled around with them in Las Vegas, and they considered her something of a mascot (as opposed to the women they kept around for decorative and/or amorous purposes). She would perform with them, party with them, and yet somehow retain her popular image as
an innocent pixie. It was a great setup—she could enjoy all the fun of the boys’ club without being harmed by the negative associations of their freewheeling booze-and-broads lifestyle.

  Nevertheless, there was a downside to all this roistering merriment. At some point Mr. Sinatra apparently fell afoul of the Mob—he had crossed somebody somewhere, on a business deal or a singing engagement, or maybe he’d insulted a big shot’s wife at a ringside table—and the word was out that payback was coming. One of the rumors circulating was that Shirley MacLaine’s daughter was in jeopardy of being kidnapped.

  Me—kidnapped! To avert this possibility, I was shipped off to Japan for safekeeping. Mom hated to let me go, but she had to, for my sake. It was a great sacrifice on her part, and in some ways she never recovered. At least that was her version.

  I was a little skeptical about this story. After all, the Mob knew where Japan was, if they really wanted to find me. And why Frank Sinatra would have cared whether I was kidnapped was never clear to me. In light of his supercool ring-a-ding-ding philosophy, I can’t imagine my abduction would have taken much of a toll on his psyche.

  In any event, the threat gradually passed, everything got smoothed over—soon Frank Sinatra was brokering deals between Sam Giancana and JFK, and all was right with the world—but nobody ever thought to bring me back. I lived in Japan for the next ten years, spending only my summers and holidays with Mom in L.A.

  • • •

  MOM and Dad met in New York City in 1952. She says when he walked into the bar on West Forty-Fifth Street, where she and her fellow chorus members from Me and Juliet were hanging out, she was immediately taken with his handsome swagger and his charm. He wasn’t tall—five nine—so she made the interesting decision to take off her high heels, so she wouldn’t be taller than he was. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Mom give ground to anyone. For Steve Parker, though, she willingly made herself smaller.