Inside Hol lywood Dorothy Clark Haskin
Fourth Part o f Six
Dorothy Clark was brought up in the powder-filled, smoke-laden atmosphere of the stage and motion pictures. She danced on Broadway and played child roles in motion pictures with Mae Mur ray, Mary Pickford, Bryant Washburn, Richard Dix and others. During her childhood, Dorothy’s mother followed the teaching of Chris tian Science, Unity, Theosophy, Palmis try, Numerology, Rosicrucianism and other cults. One day when Dorothy was eighteen she went searching for God. She attended four services in one day, and though three of them were funda mental, the way of salvation was not made clear. Dorothy and her mother continued to Kve in darkness. DEATH W ITHOUT HOPE OR GOD H AVING failed in my search for God I pursued my career. I played on the Pantages time in a dramatic sketch, danced in night clubs, was in a play in Chicago, and worked in pictures in Hollywood. I had beaux, an occasional violent attachment, all of which I ruthlessly gave up for my mother. She would encourage a ro mance until she saw I was serious; then she would deliberately break up the love affair, insulting the man, keeping me from receiving his phone calls and let ters. I didn’t even fight her actions. I was content to be with her, two women together, battling an unfriendly world. My grandmother in Maine died. Mother was disconsolate because the family did not delay the funeral so she could go, and determined to visit her grave. We drove to New York where I secured an engagement dancing in a night club in New Jersey. Mother drove to Maine, visited her mother’s grave; then wired me, “ Meet me Parker House Tuesday morning.” It is always easy to take a couple of days off from a night club at the beginning of the week, so I took the night boat to Boston. Arriving in Boston, I went to the Parker House. How vividly I remember mother as she lay there in bed! She wore a rose- colored chiffon nightgown and her bobbed sable-black hair lay in soft curls around her face. Petulantly she com plained, “Here you are, 22, and you’re not a star. You probably never will be.” “ Right,” I agreed. To the average
person almost any actor is a star. But in show business the word star has a definite meaning. When the billing reads “ Spangled Revue with Dorothy Clark,” the actress is not a star. But when the name of the actress is ahead of the name of the play, “ Dorothy Clark in ‘Spangled Revue’ ”, then she is a star. It is strange that with all of mother’s desire for me to become a star that I had not. Probably I had not because the desire was not strong enough within me. I was never happy in show busi ness. It was merely a means of liveli hood to which I had been trained. And so, that morning I asked, “What be comes of ex-actresses?” I knew I would soon be “ ex.” There is small place for any girl in the theatrical world except those with extreme youth. “ I don’t know,” she sighed. To mother, the idea of being any place but in show business was bitter. She enjoyed the ex citement of it. But there was a streak of my practical father in me. I was the one who had insisted we buy the house, who kept our small craft steady. And that morning I was confident that I would find some way to continue taking care of her. “ Let’s eat,” she decided. She dressed in a royal blue velvet dress. We had breakfast at Ginter’s. She sat there, disturbed, drinking a second pot of tea. She knew what she planned to do and was postponing it. We drove to Milk street and parked in front of the post office. I went in to the general delivery window to see if there was any mail. There wasn’t. I went back to the car. When I opened the door, Mother turned to me, her face twisted with pain, and said, “ I’ve shot myself.” I was shocked but not surprised. I was so close to her that I knew how unhappy she was. Christian Science and other cults had not satisfied her heart. Nor had the money I earned as a dancer and actress. Nor having her own home in Hollywood. Nothing had really satis fied her. Life was a failure. I hurried across the street to where a burly Irish cop was directing traffic and told him, “ My mother has shot her self. I must get her to the hospital.” “ Go back to the car,” he directed. “ I’ll get you some help.” I went back to our car, slid Mother from behind the wheel and got in. A cop came up, leaned in the window and
said, “ You want to get this lady to the hospital?” “ I must.” He stood on the running board and pressing his hand on the horn, directed me the few blocks to the Haymarket Square hospital. There, he helped Moth er out of the car and inside the build ing while I went back and parked the car. As far as I knew, this man was the traffic cop to whom I had spoken. I couldn’t tell the men apart in my anxiety. But when I went to the front steps, the cop was waiting and angrily said, “You didn’t tell me this woman had been shot. I’m taking you to the station.” “ But I’ve got to look after Mother,” I protested. “ You’re coming with me,” he coun tered, and so, while my mother lay dying, I was taken to the police station. I was not arrested but held under “technical custody.” I was asked a thousand questions about the shooting. The sergeant claimed I was not telling the truth because his men could not find the gun. Finally I was locked in a room completely bare of furniture but for a bench. I wore shoes imported from France, sheer silk stockings, a black satin dress, a seal and squirrel coat and had plen ty of money in my purse, but I was held for hours, without anyone to whom to appeal. I paced the floor like a caged animal. I pounded on the door; and I screamed and cried, but I remained a prisoner. Finally the police found the gun which had slipped down behind the seat in the car. Mother recovered conscious ness, admitting she had shot herself and I was released. I started back to the hospital and on every street corner the newspapers were stacked high with the headlines scream ing “ DOROTHY CLARK’S MOTHER SUICIDE.” At the hospital, I found Mother in a bed with a screen around it, and on the critical list. I stayed by her bed that night, the next day and the next night. I suppose I went out to eat. I don’t remember. At times she slept but at other times she was conscious. She did not regret having shot herself. She said, “ God is merciful. I would rather trust myself to Him than lots of people I know.” Also, she said, “ It is best for you that I do this. Somehow I have failed T H E K I N G ' S B U S I N E S S
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