Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1959)

there’ll be a big cupboard. Mickey’s building it himself. And we’ll have a marbletop table big enough for thirty or forty people. I hope we can have just mobs of our friends around during the holidays. Now upstairs!” Considering her eight-month condition, Jayne seemed to be setting a pretty fast pace up the steps, but she sighed, “Right now I wish the elevator was in. We’re having a well cut through all three floors for it. That will have to go!” “That” was a heavy Spanish chandelier suspended in the center of the huge stairwell. “We’ve ordered the most beautiful new chandelier — all crystal — absolutely brilliant!” Peering through the next doorway that Jayne led me to, I felt suddenly disillusioned. For there, in an otherwise empty room, was a large object that was unmistakably a bed— nice, comfortable one, too — neatly made-up. Had those newspaper stories been partly a publicity gag, after all? A few seconds later, I was ashamed of my suspicions. “Jayne Marie’s room,” said Jayne Marie’s mother. “We couldn’t have her sleeping on a mattress on the floor, like Mickey and me. But this bed isn’t finished. It’s going to have a wide headboard, so Jayne Marie can spread out her collection of dolls. She has some new ones, that we bought in Europe. And she has some old ones, that were mine when I was a little girl.” Standing in the doorway, Jayne tilted her head back against the doorjamb, her eyes dreaming into the past. “When I was her age — just past eight — I used to imagine living in a place like this — the way it’s going to look when it’s finished, I mean. I always thought of Hollywood as my real home, do you know that? Even years before I came here.” Somehow, that confidence cast a new light on the fabulous house and all its wonders-to-be; the pink, fur-like covering for the bathroom walls; the limestone walls (genuine fossils embedded in them) and the white carpeting for the second nonbusiness den, hideaway for Jayne and Mickey. Seen through the eyes of a daydreaming child, it all looked wonderful, with a certain endearing innocence. Of course, I knew Jayne Mansfield was no eight-year-old now; she was the girl who had boldly courted the press, shrewdly played the dumb-blonde role to the hilt for publicity’s sake, tirelessly gone after the sort of life she wanted. But how fine to have kept that child’s eagerness through it all! Here was no “Fame is such a bore” or “Money means nothing” line. Here was refreshing, honest enjoyment. Something warmer filled the house, too — tender affection. Jayne had crossed the room, and she was holding a floppy-eared, pink and red stuffed rabbit. “This is Jayne Marie’s favorite, so the room’s going to be done to match it. The whole thing’s going to be little-girlish, not sophisticated — the way Jayne Marie likes it, not the way I’d like it. After all, it’s her room. Now, there’s no use showing you the nursery, because it’s not even started. We don’t know whether the baby’s going to be Miklos — after Mickey — or Camille Yvonne. So we’re playing it safe, doing the nursery in pink, blue, lavender and yellow. That takes care of the future, too — we’d like at least five more children.” We were idling down the stairs. The sound of hammering had stopped, and Jayne was walking lightly, cautioning me to do the same. “Little Jayne’s down in the kitchen. She’s home from school today with a cold, and she’s making lunch for Mickey. Everybody has to be terribly quiet p when she’s creating a new dish, so it won’t fall. She had a terrible experience with her first try at a cake, and she hasn’t gotten over it yet.” 80 The kitchen, at least, was close to completion— fully electric, with all the equipment in shades of pink and turquoise. It was now the setting for one of the strangest, funniest, most touching scenes I’ve ever encountered. At the stove was little Jayne, fork in hand, looking very expert. Seated at the table, waiting patiently, were little Jayne’s stepfather and the lady who had met me at the door. She and Mickey were chatting in the same language I’d heard before, so I gathered it must be his native tongue. When we were introduced, I was told that she was half of a Hungarian couple hired to take charge of the housekeeping. Announcing that luncheon was about to be served, Jayne Marie graciously invited me to join the family in a meal consisting of string bean, peas, carrots, spinach and broccoli. “Little Jayne’s on a frozen-food kick this week,” big Jayne said as she tackled her mound of mountain greenery. “Guess today is vegetable day.” Under Jayne Marie’s proud and watchful eye, everybody ate with convincing gusto, though I almost choked on a moundful of broccoli when I spotted a large, sinister, dark hole gaping in one of the walls. “What’s that?” “It’s going to be an aquarium,” Jayne said, getting up to switch on a light inside the uninhabited cavern. “Pretty mad, huh? Mickey, what do you say we stock it with trout? Out of the aquarium into the frying pan — fishing on Sunset Boulevard!” It wasn’t just the enthusiasm that was catching — it was the whole crazy, zingy, daffy routine. The sudden appearance of a workman greeted as “Archie” was hardly surprising; the problem he presented began to sound like part of a perfectly normal home-decorating job. “Hey Jayne, how about those champagne baths you’re always taking? I got an idea. Suppose I build a special cabinet right next to the tub, to keep the bottles in. You’ll have the stuff handy when you want it, and when you’re finished with ’em you can put ’em away there. That way, you won’t have any empties cluttering up the bath mat. Okay?” He disappeared without waiting for an answer. When his words finally sank in, I asked the laughing Jayne, “Is he really going to do it?” “I wouldn’t put it past him. Sometimes I think it’s all getting out of hand, but I guess having a house redecorated right around you is always kind of confusing.” “Wonderful meal!” Mickey said, and we WHAT LIES AHEAD? What’s the outlook for our economy ? After the recession, what? Will there be more jobs, more opportunities? What does America’s growth mean to me? For the facts, send today for a free booklet about America’s future to The Advertising Council, Box 10, Midtown Station, New York 17, N. Y. all joined in complimenting the cook. “Now, Jaynie,” he said, “how about those shelves in your room?” “Oh yes!” The little girl jumped up, put her hand in her stepfather’s and trailed off after him. “I know just exactly where I want you to build them.” Toying with the last of the vegetables, big Jayne looked after the two and listened to the receding chatter, the high-pitched young voice and the deep, Hungarianaccented voice. “It’s the best sound in this house,” she said. The voices blended into giggling and chuckling. “Whenever I hear them laughing like that, I want to stop whatever it is I’m doing and join them. But they should have their fatherdaughter times together, just the way little Jayne and I have our mother-daughter hours. Never can help wondering what the joke is, though.” Reluctantly, I explained that the taxi I’d ordered for the return trip must be about due, and my hostess went along on the hike to the main foyer (to be lighted by that brilliant crystal chandelier) and to the front door. “I wish there was time to show you the whole place. The downstairs is a shambles. It was a big game room, but we’re doing it all over. There’ll be a small projection room, so we can show movies whenever we want to, and there’ll be sliding doors opening onto the garden. You know, we have two and a half acres, with woods and fish ponds and a darling miniature waterfall. Wonderful place for all our dogs and cats. And it’ll be wonderful for kids, too.” Jayne sketched a circle on the outside of the front door after she’d opened it. “Right here, there’ll be the biggest Christmas wreath I can find. And in the spring, we’ll have a swimming pool put in — heartshaped. I’m going to draw the shape myself. None of that professional stuff.” My head whirling, I walked a few steps away, to get one more look at the whole house, the mansion originally built by Rudy Vallee back in the days when he was king of the crooners. Nice to know that it was a last refuge for gay, unabashed Hollywood glamour. But maybe I should have some solid statistics. “How many rooms, Jayne?” “Why, I’ve never added them up. Do you count bathrooms?” I asked a passing workman the same question, and he seemed equally puzzled. “I couldn’t honestly say, miss. I’ve been working here two weeks, and I run into something new every day. I hope it’s a long job, though.” “Oh, nooo!” Jayne begged. “I mean,” he grinned, “it’s gotten so I almost hate to go home nights. Every place else seems kinda dull after being around you people.” Frankly pleased, Jayne grinned back at him. I found myself smiling, then heard the sound of a car approaching and turned to find my taxi. “Come back around the holidays,” Jayne said. “You’ll want to see the baby. And you won’t recognize this place. Oh, I almost forgot to tell you — we’re having the whole outside painted pink!” I waved through the window as the taxi started around the curve of the drive. Standing in the doorway, Jayne waved back, and I could almost see a slimmer figure, hand raised in welcome, silhouetted against the light streaming from a house full of guests — and furniture. Our helpthe-Hargitays campaign had backfired; maybe my story had fizzled; but I’d met some nice people and had a wonderful time. I’d take Jayne up on that invitation. (Would there really be a cabinet for pink champagne in the bathroom? ) The End SEE JAYNE IN 20THS “THE SHERIFF OF FRACTURED JAW.”