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Haywire: A Memoir Paperback – March 8, 2011
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From the moment of its original publication in 1977, Haywire was a national sensation, a celebrated Hollywood story of a glittering family and the stunning darkness that lurked just beneath the surface. Who could have imagined that this magical life could shatter, so conclusively, so destructively? Brooke Hayward tells the riveting story of how her family went haywire.
“Haywire is a Hollywood childhood memoir, a glowing tapestry spun with equal parts of gold and pain.... An absolute beauty.” —The New York Times Book Review
- Print length352 pages
- LanguageEnglish
- PublisherVintage
- Publication dateMarch 8, 2011
- Dimensions5.2 x 0.7 x 8 inches
- ISBN-100307739597
- ISBN-13978-0307739599
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Editorial Reviews
Review
“Moving and brave and beautifully written. . . . [Hayward] has told it as Fitzgerald might have—with the glow and the glamour, and finally, the heartbreak.” —Newsday
“One of the most extraordinary personal memoirs I've ever read. It has great honesty and charm and humor and beauty, and it is deeply moving.” —Truman Capote
“Exquisite.” —Vanity Fair
“[A] masterpiece in the genre of harrowing autobiographical tell-all.” —W
“Elegant and moving.” —Gore Vidal
“A sort of glorious fable from American mythology. . . . A gripping and eloquent memoir by a courageous and classy writer.” —St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“She has modeled and acted and written: she writes, in fact, marvelously. Haywire mesmerizes. May it cauterize as well.” —The New York Times
“An incredible achievement!” —Lauren Bacall
“One of those rare books which seem to alter your perception of things. It is specific and true in dealing with lives that might have served as models for Fitzgerald’s fiction.” —Mike Nicols
“Brave, honest, intelligent and greatly moving.” —Newsweek
“Engrossing, intimate, moving. . . . Brooke Hayward writes like an angel.” —Cosmopolitan
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Endings
She had called me late the night before.
Looking back, I recall (or invent?) an urgency to her tone, but really all she'd said was "Can you have breakfast tomorrow?"
"Hmm. What time? Do you have the proper ingredients? English muffins? Marmalade, et cetera?" We'd never shaken the habit of testing one another.
"Of course, you spoiled brat. Come at ten, you shall have ginger marmalade from Bloomingdale's, fresh orange juice I shall squeeze personally, boiled eggs—your customary five and a half minutes. And of course there will be fascinating conversation."
"Might I have a clue?" We'd also become adept at approaching each other with oblique, occasionally fake, courtesy.
Silence, as I'd expected. Then: "Okay, do you have a good gynecologist?"
My silence. "Of course. What for?"
"Brooke, listen." She was suddenly singing. "I have never ever been so happy in my life—I think I'm pregnant."
"What?" I was predictably stunned, but less by that possibility than by her confiding in me. "How the hell did you get pregnant?"
"Oh," she said, giggling, "probably from a toilet seat."
"Bridget. For God's sake, have you gone mad? I mean, how can you possibly be twenty-one years old and reasonably, one hopes, reasonably intelligent and not have been to a—"
"Brooke, listen." She was positively frenzied with elation. "Listen, it's entirely possible that I want to get married, I'm so in love. Do you hear me? Married!"
This conversation was moving just out of my reach, like a smoke ring. All I could say was "Yes. I see what you mean about breakfast—yes, indeed. Might one ask who the expectant father is? No, never mind."
"Ten o'clock tomorrow. What's he like, is he nice, does he hurt?" I knew she meant the gynecologist.
"Yes, no, never mind. Actually he's from India—nice blend of exotic and imperturbable. Forget it, go to sleep."
"Okay, see you in the morning. Farewell." Farewell. Nobody but Bridget ever said goodbye to me like that; all her beginnings and endings where I was concerned were unpredictable, and most of the dialogue in between was enigmatic, a foreign language to any outsider. But for my benefit she talked in her own private shorthand, and what farewell meant was that she wanted me to button up my overcoat and take good care of myself until ten in the morning, because she would miss me in a way that would take far too much sentimental effort to express. I knew what she meant. Often I missed her while we were in the same room together.
I contemplated the phone for some time. Never had I heard her so oddly gay and forthright; as a matter of fact, we hadn't discussed sex since adolescence. Her entire inner life was secretive and mysterious, and no one dared violate it. She sent out powerful "No Trespassing" signals and I had learned to honor them. It crossed my mind that my sister was drunk.
Still, the next morning—a warm October day in 1960—I stood outside her apartment door, nonplussed by the stack of mail and the furled New York Times propped against it. The door itself was slowly getting on my nerves. It didn't open when I rang the doorbell for the fifth or sixth time. It didn't have a crack underneath big enough for a worthwhile view of the interior, although idiotically I'd got down on my hands and knees and looked anyway. Nor did I have a key to unlock it. Even if she had been drunk the night before, which was unlikely—besides, I prided myself on being able to interpret at least her external behavior—she would have been incapable of losing track of her invitation; she was a creature of infuriating compulsion, particularly in matters of time and place, always fussing about my lack of regard for either. Ever since she'd moved from her one-room, third-floor apartment (to which I had possessed a key, much used) to the comparative luxury of an apartment one floor higher with an actual separate bedroom and view (of the building across the street), I'd felt vaguely displaced and surly. For the last year, I'd though of that little one-room apartment as mine, an irrational attachment, since I was not exactly homeless. Until a month before, I'd been living not only in a commodious house in Greenwich, Connecticut, but also, during the week, in a pied-á-terre on East Seventy-second Street. My marriage to Michael Thomas, art historian and budding investment banker, so blithely undertaken during undergraduate days at Vassar and Yale, had, when removed from the insular academic atmosphere of New Haven, fallen apart. We were no longer wrapped in cotton wool; I was no longer a child bride. Now that our divorce was final, I'd moved our two small children into New York and into my own spacious apartment on Central Park West. I continued, however, to drop by Bridget's whenever I had five minutes between modeling jobs and interviews. "Just checking out my make-up," I'd announce breezily, or, "Gotta use your phone." The idea of telling my sister I'd really come to see her would never have crossed my mind.
Her new quarters did have certain advantages: twice the closet space for her warehouses of clothes and shoes, and a fully mirrored bathroom, very handy for looking at oneself from all angles while sitting on the cosmetics-crammed counter and conversing with Bridget submerged in the tub as she tested some new bubble bath. But I had never acquired the same proprietary feelings about this setup. It just didn't have the smell and cozy inconvenience of the old. And now I cursed myself for neglecting to collect the duplicate key she'd had made for me weeks ago. Becoming more and more exasperated with both of us, I rang fiercely four times in a row. Actually I felt like kicking the door. Then I though I heard a sound from where the bedroom ought to be. Of course, it was possible that she might still be asleep. Or, more interesting, asleep with an as yet undisclosed lover. But wouldn't she have left a characteristically humorous note to that effect, right where the bills from Con Ed and Jax were now lying? I began to punch the doorbell to the rhythm of "Yankee Doodle Dandy." During countless afternoon naps when we were young, we'd invented out of boredom what we thought was this highly original game, whereby we would take turns tapping out an unidentified song with our fingernails on the wooden headboards of our twin beds; the object was to determine who was better at guessing it or tapping it, or even choosing it if it was particularly esoteric. We both became fairly skillful, but this time the old signal got no response. I decided that the noise was either imagined or my stomach growling. Fresh orange juice and an English muffin with crisp bacon at Stark's around the corner on Lexington became increasingly crucial. I scribbled her a note and went on down in the elevator, trying to feel philosophical about the whole wasted half-hour. Clearly some matter of extreme urgency was to blame. At this very moment she was certainly racing back to meet me, caught between subways, maybe, wonder of wonders, even springing for a cab.
I galloped across the lobby toward the heavy glass doors and sunlight. Behind the streamlined reception desk, more appropriate to a luxury liner than an apartment building, was a ruddy-faced doorman.
"Hi. Did you see my sister go out today?"
"No, Miss," he answered in a thick brogue, "but then I only come on at eight."
"Ah." I hesitated with a charming smile. "Well. Tell me something." (I tried Mother's ingratiating imperative.) "Um, what time does the mail get delivered? I mean, to the people in the building?"
"Oh, Miss, maybe just over half an hour ago."
"And the newspaper?"
"Oh, somewhere around six or seven. Just a minute, Miss." He moved to the door to let in an elderly couple with a poodle and a Gristede's shopping bag, then bolted the door open so that all the sounds of the morning spewed in. A battle of simultaneous desires was shaping up; whether to go out or stay and satisfy my curiosity. After some consideration I followed him to the immense tropical plant at the entrance. It was embarrassing—even melodramatic—to ask for a key to apartment 403, but I did anyway.
"No problem, Miss. I'll ring Pete and ask him to take you up. He's in the basement."
"No, no, no, thanks, that's too much trouble." Ridiculous. For instance, what if she had had to meet Bill Francisco, a young director at the Yale Drama School (and romantic interest), for whom she was doing some kind of production work? She had probably left a message on my service. A telephone was clearly indicated. Again, Stark's. Besides, Bridget was so intensely ferocious about her privacy there was no telling what she'd do if she knew I'd go to such lengths to break into her sanctuary. Although Bridget was a year and a half younger, I was afraid of her. "Listen, do me a favor—when you see her, tell her I came by and rang but there was no answer and I'll call her later. Okay?"
He nodded and started to lift his hand, but I was already out the door, feeling infinitely better, and striding toward Lexington.
By the time I'd downed my O.J., read the paper, checked Belles for a negative on messages, and gone to the ladies room, the grand superstructure of the day had begun to disintegrate. Out of perverseness, I jumped on the subway and went down to a sound stage on Fourth Street to watch the shooting of Kay Doubleday's big strip scene in Mad Dog Coll, a gangster film that can still, to my embarrassment, be seen occasionally on late-night TV. (It was the first movie I'd ever been in; I had many difficult thing to do, like play the violin and get raped by Vincent [Mad Dog] Coll, played by a young actor named John Chandler, who, on completion of the movie, decided to become a priest.) Kay Doubleday was in my class at Lee Strasberg's; it was in the interest of art, I told myself, to watch her prance down a ramp, singing and stripping her heart out.
I then ate a huge heavy lunch at Moscowitz & Lupowitz with the art director Dick Sylbert. Over coffee, he smoked his pipe and patiently tried to explain the difference between champlevé and cloisonné enamel. This meandered into a discussion of etching techniques. Having killed the afternoon to m thorough satisfaction, I took a slow but up Madison Avenue in order to read Time magazine. It was an absolutely beautiful four o'clock, the best in months, and when the bus got as afar as Fifty-fourth Street, I decided to disembark, fetch Bridget after first giving her hell, and buy a new pair of shoes.
About a block away from her building, a strange thing happened. I was seized by what seemed to be a virulent case of the flu. My temperature rose and fell five degrees in as many seconds. Hot underground springs of scalding perspiration seeped out everywhere, and yet I was shaking with cold, frostbitten inside and out. There was nothing reassuring about the pavement under my feet; I couldn't move forward on it. Well, I thought, by way of helpful explanation, I should be getting home anyway. Besides, after the screw-up this morning she owes me the next move; either this is repressed anger or pre-menstrual tension, but in any case how virtuous and rich I shall feel for not having bought a pair of shoes this afternoon.
I hailed a cab fast, so that I wouldn't have to waste time squatting on Fifty-fourth Street at rush hour with my head between my legs. Ah, well, I thought feverishly, "I grow old . . . I grow old . . . I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled," an ague hath my ham; marrow fatigue, not enough exercise, no tennis, badminton, swimming, fencing, volleyball, modern dance, any dance. I missed school gymnasiums, horseback riding; all I did now was tramp concrete sidewalks and wooden stages and Central Park on weekends. Middle age was phasing out into senility. I fooled the cabdriver, though, by smiling at him so he wouldn't notice all the change I dropped as we pulled up to 15 West Eighty-first Street, across from the Hayden Planetarium. Dark and cool, its dingy Moorish fountained-and-tiled lobby always welcomed me home from the wars. I rose in the elevator, gratefully trying to snuggle against its ancient varnished paneling, and finally stood with ossified feet in the small hall outside my door. The hall was semiprivate; unfortunately it provided wizened old Mrs. Rosenbaum and myself with a common meeting ground, ours being the only two apartments opening off it. She endowed it richly with a perpetual odor of cabbage, and I with an expensive new lay or wallpaper to distract from her barbaric cuisine.
Product details
- Publisher : Vintage; Reprint edition (March 8, 2011)
- Language : English
- Paperback : 352 pages
- ISBN-10 : 0307739597
- ISBN-13 : 978-0307739599
- Item Weight : 10.8 ounces
- Dimensions : 5.2 x 0.7 x 8 inches
- Best Sellers Rank: #379,678 in Books (See Top 100 in Books)
- #640 in Movie History & Criticism
- #3,350 in Actor & Entertainer Biographies
- #4,272 in Women's Biographies
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There have been plenty of fascinating characters in high places worthy of reading about, but few biographies or memoirs about them are THIS well done. Truly ''suis generis'' in my opinion.
Brooke Hayward is a great writer. She depicts her tragic sister Bridget, particularly with a poetic power. The scene of her coming to the door of her apartment on the brink of something terrible happening to her had my heart in my throat, even though I'd read the book in the past and knew the ultimate outcome! That is a true sign of great writing.
So many of the characters written about here have their own fascinating story lines to explore, so once you finish this book you may want to read more about them. It's always good to read several sources about an individual, to get a well rounded perspective. Some worth reading about that appear in this book, just to name a few: Pamela Churchill, Slim Hawkins, any of the Fondas, the Duchins, the Harrimans. The lives described here intersected with so many others of note, and at a very unique time in American history, the 30s to the 60s.
I was always left wondering about the mother, the actress Margaret Sullavan. I had read elsewhere or got between the lines in this book, that she had at least a version of bipolar disorder (manic depression), which would explain her getting a 'bee in her bonnet' about one idea or another, and changing their lives entirely. Also explained her eventual suicide and the mental illness which appeared later in her children.
Brooke herself is such an interesting and layered person, and obviously deeply intelligent if she could produce a work of this quality. I would love to read more from her.
'Haywire' falls broadly into that subgenre of publishing which factually addresses the misadventures, scandals, mental illnesses, suicides, and occasional murders in the lives of America's privileged classes. Such books, which predominantly focus on women, can be dubiously motivated and tawdry, or they can be instructive and educational when produced with integrity and intelligence. 'Haywire,' which was a national bestseller upon its initial release, certainly falls into the latter category.
The genre probably began with Mary Astor's startling 'My Story: An Autobiography' (1959), which detailed the actress's lifelong struggle with alcoholism, and also includes Jean Stein's 'Edie: An American Autobiography' (1982), C. David Haymann's 'Poor Little Rich Girl: The Life and Legend of Barbara Hutton' (1984), Natalie Robins and Steven M. L. Aronson's 'Savage Grace: The True Story of Fatal Relations in a Rich and Famous American Family' (1985), Gioia Diliberto's 'Debutante: The Story of Brenda Frazier' (1987), Susan Braudy's 'This Crazy Thing Called Love: The Golden World and Fatal Marriage of Ann and Billy Woodward' (1992), Jean Nathan's 'The Secret Life of the Lonely Doll: The Search for Dare Wright' (2004), and even Diane Keaton's recent 'Then Again' (2011), among many others.
'Haywire' begins weakly with a short but excessively overwritten chapter, 'Endings,' which details the events in Hayward's life on the day on which her beloved younger sister, Bridget, is found dead, an apparent suicide, at age twenty-one.
'Endings' flashes back nine months to January 1st 1960, when the 50 year-old Sullavan is discovered unconscious in a New Haven, Connecticut hotel, only to die shortly after without ever regaining consciousness. The hard facts surrounding Sullavan's death remain vague; whether she committed suicide or accidentally overdosed on sleeping pills remains unclear (a family friend recalls Sullavan, just before her death, ominously saying to her, "I can't go on and I can't get out").
Regardless of why 'Endings' reads as poorly as it does (perhaps Hayward's editor was hesitant to suggest necessary changes due to the highly sensitive subject matter), once Hayward begins chronicling her past with a greater degree of objectively, 'Haywire' reads beautifully, presenting its audience with a brief glimpse into America's---and Hollywood's---'Golden Age,' a period which coincided with Hayward's happy childhood in 1940s California and Connecticut.
During that period, Hayward and her immediate family were intimately connected to one another in a manner they never would be again. Sullavan had retired from acting to devote her life to her family, they lived in beautiful, spacious homes, and routinely entertained Sullavan's first husband, Henry Fonda, his children, Jane and Peter, James Stewart, Hoagy Carmichael and other luminaries of the era. Hayward's evocation of this period is powerful indeed ("a time when everything was radiant, when every detail had such absolute clarity, every color such vibrance, that it would be impossible ever to forget").
This Wordsworthian 'golden age' comes crashing to a halt when Hayward's parents announce first their separation and then their divorce, events which, not surprisingly, each blame on the other. As so often happens, wounded pride and miscommunication came between Sullavan and Hayward; neither party appears to have really wanted the divorce.
The author presents her parents as essentially conflicted individuals: the confident, stoic, and stubborn Sullavan chose acting as a career from an early age, but professed to despise the theater, the film world, and Hollywood stardom her entire adult life (though she secretly kept enormous scrapbooks of every press clipping, magazine article, and professional photo of her ever taken or released), while the pleasure-seeking, child-like Leland Hayward, who dressed in a pronounced collegiate style, professed to be enamored of New York City and the Eastern Establishment, but, paradoxically, nonetheless preferred to spend almost his entire life in California.
Hayward's teenage years living with her mother and two siblings in the tony Greenwich, Connecticut of the 1950s were also relatively happy: the pretty young Hayward, at 16, graced the cover of Life magazine, there were pool parties and country clubs, occasional Caribbean vacations with their remarried father, and elite private school in both America and Europe.
Hayward and her sister have typical teenage skirmishes with their mother, though Hayward, older by several years, also notices that Bridget has begun to withdraw into long silences and become extremely secretive. Bridget has also started to challenge her mother openly, questioning her sincerity and 'Southern good manners.' No one except Bridget realizes she has begun to experience what will be later diagnosed as epileptic seizures.
With familial tensions rising, there is an abrupt emotional explosion and contest of wills; when the smoke has cleared, Bridget and the youngest Hayward child, Bill, have decided they want to live with their father in California, and their father has, perhaps foolishly, agreed to allow them to do so.
Their leaving--"the terrible anxiety that she had failed as a mother"--precipitates Sullavan's mental and emotional breakdown, which also has professional repercussions for the actress.
Sullavan spends several months in the Austen Riggs Center, a Massachusetts psychiatric hospital, where Bridget will also be sent within the next few years, while Bill, who committed suicide in 2008, is eventually sent to the Menninger Clinic in Kansas. Sullavan was more than used to getting her own way in all things---the author mentions that even MGM honcho Louis B. Mayer was afraid of her, when he was intimidated by no one else, not even Greta Garbo---but when she could no longer control the lives of her children, their rebellion seems to have broken her spirit for good.
While today mental illness and its treatment are routinely discussed and exploited in media and at all levels of society, the same was certainly not true in 1977, when 'Haywire' was first published. Therefore, while the book seemed ominous and even shocking in its era, today, the threatening aspects seem rather commonplace, generally speaking, which allows the author's emotional focus on her family, and the loss of it, to come to the fore. The beautiful Johnny Swope photographs of the family on the beach in its early-1940s prime underscore the book's sadness in a hundred ways.
With brief contributions from James Stewart, Joseph Cotten, Henry Fonda, Jane Fonda, Truman Capote, Diana Vreeland, and others.