Haywire by Brooke Hayward (android based ebook reader .txt) 📕

preaching. I’ll bet you can’t wait to get as far away as possible from this boring tirade. I don’t blame you.”

We shook our heads, flattered that she was confiding in us, feeling very close to her.

“Are you jealous?” Bridget inquired, curling up beside her. “Ooh, your legs and feet are cold. Do you want some socks? You need Emily to take care of you.”

“No, I need you. All of you. You’re much better than an old pair of socks.”

“Are you jealous?”

“Well, yes, I was. At first. You see, I’ve known for a while. It’s one of the reasons I decided it might be best for me to go away for a few months, far away to England. Leland and I talked about it. It was a calculated risk, but I thought maybe, that way, with a little distance between us, we could get some perspective. Reevaluate our feelings, perhaps bring them back to life. It seemed that here we were flogging them to death. But leaving didn’t work either.…”

Years later, she said: “So typical of your father. As soon as I arrived in England, walked down the gangplank of the boat, there was talk: a friend greeted me with the news that Leland had gone right off to Hawaii with Slim for a lovely two-week vacation—quite openly, so that it hit all the stinking gossip columns immediately. My pride was lacerated, every corpuscle in my body hurt. I felt as if my nose had been rubbed in it. Publicity—that kind, in particular—had always been a dirty word to me. The neurotic measures I took to keep my private life out of the claws of those hyenas!—as your father knew better than anyone. So, of course—as he could have predicted, not being exactly a moron—I lost my temper, became totally discouraged with the whole thing, just plain gave up. Is that what he intended? I’ve often wondered since. Then I didn’t know, and suddenly didn’t care either. When I got back, he begged me not to leave him; I felt he’d already left me.”

Years later, he said: “Your mother has always been the most impossible woman I’ve ever known, and I’ve known them all. That’s my business, for Chrissake. Actresses. What the hell did she expect? I implored her not to go, we had lengthy discussions about it; at her insistence we both consulted psychiatrists—and you know what bullshit I think that is—By the way, it was kind of interesting, after I’d gone in for a couple of sessions, my doctor, a woman doctor—absolutely wonderful woman, I decided as a result of this—told me: ‘Leland,’ she said, ‘there is no question that you are crazy, but you also happen to function better than anyone I’ve ever seen, and what more can you ask out of life? There’s no point in my treating you; it would be a waste of your money and would probably throw the whole mechanism out of whack. Stay the way you are.’ Well, naturally, I just thought she was the most sensational—nuts about her. Anyway. Your mother, in her usual headstrong manner, decided to go to England. Her shrink’s advice. I kept telling her how ill-advised a move it was right at that time—I told her that, told her how vulnerable I was. She knew. There was no big deal. She was nobody’s fool. I was a damned attractive man. Women adored me, I adored them, but that didn’t mean I was behaving like Don Juan, for God’s sake. Basically I’m absolutely monogamous. Basically romantic. Faithful. As long, that is, as I know I’m cared about. I’m not very demanding, and, by God, I can put up with a great deal more horseshit than most men. But there came a point—and Maggie was perfectly aware of this, since I informed her of it myself—past which not even I could continue to go out night after night by myself, alone, while she was, arbitrarily, thousands of miles away. Connecticut. After years, I started having an affair. Nothing original about that. I honestly didn’t know what the hell I was supposed to do next. She decided for me. Chose exactly the wrong course of action. Six months in England. ‘Maggie, why,’ I asked her, ‘why in God’s name should I sit around twiddling my thumbs and examining my navel while you go off and do whatever you please? That just isn’t fair.’ I have never, in my life, known such a perverse woman. And you know something about your mother? She was the most enchanting, wonderful, delicious human being in the world—God, she had a marvelous sense of humor, kind of offbeat and naughty—until I slipped a wedding ring on her finger. And even that was her idea. She was the one who wanted to get married; she wanted the divorce. Called all the shots. She was adamant. I begged her for once in her goddamned life not to be so bloody pig-headed; it didn’t seem to me that I’d committed the crime of the century. And there were the three of you—‘My God, Maggie,’ I kept saying, ‘what about the children?’ No use. She’d made up her mind, she was furious, her pride was hurt, and she wouldn’t back down. Never could. Until it was too late. She always got her own way. Always …”

Years later, Millicent Osborn (she and Paul remained close friends of both Mother’s and Father’s) said:

“I thought a great deal of the divorce was Maggie’s fault, Maggie’s doing, realty, not Leland’s at all. It all goes back to this attitude that she had. It was really an essential arrogance, although she didn’t know it, of wanting things the way she wanted them without regard for what Leland wanted. Leland wanted to remain in California. This was his whole life. She wanted Leland to give up the movie business, to come to New York and be a producer. She was so unhappy about Leland’s working after he got home, she wanted him to give up the