Read Online Call Me Anna: The Autobiography of Patty Duke by Patty Duke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Patty Duke
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slept. We all had to stand there and watch Bambi make a river, and after she’d finally acquiesced, everybody had to tell her how good she was to have done it. And then, because no river was allowed to stay more than ten seconds, you would lift up and dispose of four pieces of the paper—no more, no less—so that Bambi’s box was always clean.
Finally, years later, Bambi became ill, even in the Rosses’ eyes, and they took her to a special vet in New Jersey: no one else could be used. They came back without her, heartbroken that Bambi had to stay overnight. That was one of the few times I reverted to my Catholicism, praying fervently that the dog would die. And she did. That really encouraged me and I started praying about the Rosses! If it worked on animals, maybe it would work on people too. Even though I was always giving interviews about how much Bambi meant to me, I really hated that dog. God, she was hideous. And the Rosses were much nicer to Bambi than they were to me:no demands were made on that animal, she didn’t have to perform any function. I’ll probably have to pay some karmic price for this, but I can’t help it. I loathed that dog.
Life with the Rosses provided few opportunities for escape, and sometimes they came in unlikely situations. In 1959 I made a curious little science fiction film called The 4-D Man, which starred Robert Lansing as a scientist who learns the secret of transposing matter and is able to walk through walls and things like that. Unfortunately, he needed human energy to revitalize his powers, and I played one of his victims: a little girl pushing a doll carriage. He takes one look at me and the next thing, my little legs are sticking out from some bushes, next to a broken carriage.
The producer of the film, Jack Harris, owned a studio out in rural Pennsylvania where he’d made The Blob and other movies. I was a city kid and this was my first extended time in the country. I hung around with one of the producer’s sons, riding bicycles, finding secret places, inhaling the smells of the Pennsylvania countryside. It was a wonderful experience for me because of the location and the tiny sense of freedom, but I always felt as if I were doing something terrible, that I would be caught and get into trouble for having fun.
The only other times I ever got away were occasional weekends when the Rosses would ship me home if they decided they wanted to be alone. My mother had moved to Queens by this time, but my visits weren’t like Lassie Come Home or the return of the prodigal daughter. It wasn’t that those visits were unhappy, they just weren’t much of anything, probably because it was obvious that they were only a stopover, that my mother had no autonomy and nothing was going to change. When I wanted to go out, she’d say, “What would the Rosses say?” Invariably the Rosses would have said, “Don’t leave the house.” Sometimes my mother would get brave and tell me, “The Rosses said you couldn’t go out, but go ahead anyway.” I’d go out and play with the neighborhood kids, maybe go to somebody’s basement and dance, but I was always looking over my shoulder, because I knew if they called and I wasn’t home, there’d be hell to pay.
And invariably there would be one call over the weekendand if I wasn’t around—how often can you use the she’s-in-the-bathroom routine?—my mother would be ordered to get me home immediately. I always let her know exactly where I’d be in case that call came, because Ethel would rant and rave at her. “How dare you let her go out! We told you she couldn’t go out!” We were like two little kids being punished because my keeper for the weekend hadn’t followed orders.
Ordering my mother around was standard procedure for the Rosses. They would call and say, not, “Could you come in on Thursday?” but “Can you be here in forty-five minutes?” And that was not really a question. It meant, “You will be here.” And my
Finally, years later, Bambi became ill, even in the Rosses’ eyes, and they took her to a special vet in New Jersey: no one else could be used. They came back without her, heartbroken that Bambi had to stay overnight. That was one of the few times I reverted to my Catholicism, praying fervently that the dog would die. And she did. That really encouraged me and I started praying about the Rosses! If it worked on animals, maybe it would work on people too. Even though I was always giving interviews about how much Bambi meant to me, I really hated that dog. God, she was hideous. And the Rosses were much nicer to Bambi than they were to me:no demands were made on that animal, she didn’t have to perform any function. I’ll probably have to pay some karmic price for this, but I can’t help it. I loathed that dog.
Life with the Rosses provided few opportunities for escape, and sometimes they came in unlikely situations. In 1959 I made a curious little science fiction film called The 4-D Man, which starred Robert Lansing as a scientist who learns the secret of transposing matter and is able to walk through walls and things like that. Unfortunately, he needed human energy to revitalize his powers, and I played one of his victims: a little girl pushing a doll carriage. He takes one look at me and the next thing, my little legs are sticking out from some bushes, next to a broken carriage.
The producer of the film, Jack Harris, owned a studio out in rural Pennsylvania where he’d made The Blob and other movies. I was a city kid and this was my first extended time in the country. I hung around with one of the producer’s sons, riding bicycles, finding secret places, inhaling the smells of the Pennsylvania countryside. It was a wonderful experience for me because of the location and the tiny sense of freedom, but I always felt as if I were doing something terrible, that I would be caught and get into trouble for having fun.
The only other times I ever got away were occasional weekends when the Rosses would ship me home if they decided they wanted to be alone. My mother had moved to Queens by this time, but my visits weren’t like Lassie Come Home or the return of the prodigal daughter. It wasn’t that those visits were unhappy, they just weren’t much of anything, probably because it was obvious that they were only a stopover, that my mother had no autonomy and nothing was going to change. When I wanted to go out, she’d say, “What would the Rosses say?” Invariably the Rosses would have said, “Don’t leave the house.” Sometimes my mother would get brave and tell me, “The Rosses said you couldn’t go out, but go ahead anyway.” I’d go out and play with the neighborhood kids, maybe go to somebody’s basement and dance, but I was always looking over my shoulder, because I knew if they called and I wasn’t home, there’d be hell to pay.
And invariably there would be one call over the weekendand if I wasn’t around—how often can you use the she’s-in-the-bathroom routine?—my mother would be ordered to get me home immediately. I always let her know exactly where I’d be in case that call came, because Ethel would rant and rave at her. “How dare you let her go out! We told you she couldn’t go out!” We were like two little kids being punished because my keeper for the weekend hadn’t followed orders.
Ordering my mother around was standard procedure for the Rosses. They would call and say, not, “Could you come in on Thursday?” but “Can you be here in forty-five minutes?” And that was not really a question. It meant, “You will be here.” And my
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