One day, I said to Jorja, “What would you think of adopting a baby?”
“No, not yet.”
And a few days later, she came to me and said, “Maybe we should. Mary should have a sibling.”
We talked to Dr. Watson about adopting a child. He had just been approached by a pregnant college senior who was about to give birth, and who had broken up with her boyfriend. She wanted to put the baby up for adoption.
“The baby’s mother is intelligent and attractive, and comes from a nice family background,” Dr. Watson said. “I don’t think you can do better.”
Jorja, our six-year-old daughter, and I held a family conference. “You have the deciding vote,” we told Mary. “Would you like to have a little brother or sister?”
She was thoughtful for a moment. “It won’t die, will it?”
Jorja and I looked at each other. “No,” I said, “it won’t die.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
And that settled it.
I made the financial arrangements.
Three weeks later, at midnight, Dr. Watson called. “You have a healthy baby daughter.”
We named her Elizabeth Aprille, and it fit her perfectly. She was a beautiful, healthy, brown-eyed baby. I thought she had a killer smile, but Jorja told me it was probably gas.
We took Elizabeth Aprille home as soon as we were permitted to, and life started up again. Jorja and I began planning the dreams that we had planned for Alexandra. As far as we were concerned, Elizabeth Aprille was our own flesh and blood, a part of our lives. We would send her to the best schools and let her choose her own career. We were delighted to see that Mary cherished her. We gave Elizabeth Aprille the beautiful little outfits that we had bought for Alexandra. We bought her paints and an easel, in case she showed any inclination to be an artist. Piano lessons would come later.
As the months passed, it was obvious that Elizabeth Aprille adored her big sister. Whenever Mary came to her crib, Elizabeth Aprille giggled. It was wonderful to watch. Jorja and I had done the right thing. They would grow up together and love each other.
When Elizabeth Aprille was one week shy of six months, Dr. Watson telephoned.
“You made a great choice, Doctor,” I said. “I’ve never seen a happier baby. I can’t tell you how grateful we are.”
There was a long silence.
“Mr. Sheldon, I just received a call from the baby’s mother. She wants her child back.”
My blood froze. “What the hell are you talking about? We adopted Elizabeth Aprille and—”
“Unfortunately, there is a state law that a mother who puts her baby up for adoption can change her mind within the first six months. The baby’s mother and father have decided to get married and keep the baby.”
When I told Jorja the news, she went pale and I thought she was going to faint. “They—they—they can’t take our baby away from us.”
But they could.
Elizabeth Aprille was taken away the next day. Jorja and I couldn’t believe what was happening.
Mary, sobbing through her tears, said, “She was great while she lasted.”
I am not sure how we got through the excruciating pain of the next few months, but somehow we managed. We found solace in the Church of Religious Science, a nondenominational, rational combination of religion and science. Its philosophy of peace and goodness was exactly what Jorja and I needed. We took courses for a year in practitioner’s training, and then a second year. It was a wonderful healing experience. We still felt the vacuum in our lives, but ready or not, life goes on.
CHAPTER 29
Sammy Cahn, a famous lyricist, was once asked, “Which comes first, the music or the lyrics?”
His response was, “Neither. First comes the telephone call.”
The telephone call came from Joe Pasternak.
“Sidney, MGM just bought Jumbo for me. We want you to write the screenplay. Are you available?”
I was available.
Billy Rose’s Jumbo had opened on Broadway in 1935. Billy Rose, one of the top producers on Broadway, was not a man to do things in a small way. He had taken over the huge Hippodrome Theatre at Forty-third Street and had rebuilt it like a circus tent, with the audience looking down at the “ring.” Jimmy Durante and Paul Whiteman were in the show, Ben Hecht and Charley MacArthur had written the book, Rodgers and Hart had done the score, and George Abbott had directed. The crème de la crème all the way.
When the show opened, the reviews were excellent, but there was a catch. The production was so expensive that it was impossible for it to break even, let alone make a profit. It closed after five months.
It had been almost ten years since I was last on the MGM lot. Outwardly, it seemed to me that everything was pretty much the same. I was soon to learn how wrong I was.
Joe Pasternak had not changed at all. He still had the same wonderful exuberance.
“I have already signed Doris Day, Martha Raye, and Jimmy Durante. In order to get Doris, I had to make her husband, Marty Melcher, co-producer. Your old friend Chuck Walters is directing.”
That was good news. I had not seen Chuck since we had worked together on Easter Parade.
“Who is going to play the male lead?”
Pasternak hesitated. “We don’t have anyone yet, but there is an actor playing in Camelot on Broadway who might be right for it.”
“What’s his name?”
“Richard Burton. I want you to fly back to New York with Walters and take a look at him.”
“Gladly.”
It was when I went into the commissary to lunch that day that I received my shock. The same hostess, Pauline, was still working there. We greeted each other, and as she started to seat me at a table, I asked, “Where’s the writers’ table?”