“I would like the telephone number of St. John’s Hospital, on Main Street.” I had chosen a street at random, so that she would give me the correct street.
The operator returned a moment later, with the telephone number.
“And it’s on Main Street?”
“Yes,” she said.
I had happened to guess right. I put Jorja in the car and started racing into Santa Monica, where the hospital was. She was groaning in pain.
“We’ll be there in a couple of minutes,” I assured her. “Hang on.”
I reached Main Street and turned on to it. I went up and down the street. There was no St. John’s Hospital. I began to panic. It was late at night and the streets were deserted. The gas stations were closed. I had no idea where I was going. I started racing up and down every street until I finally stumbled onto the hospital—at Twenty-second and Santa Monica Boulevard, over twenty blocks away from Main Street.
Two hours later, Mary was born.
We had a healthy, beautiful baby. It was an incredible joy. Shortly after Mary was born, Jorja and I asked Groucho if he would be her godfather. When he agreed, we were delighted. We could not think of anyone more perfect.
When we brought Mary home from the hospital three days later, Laura, our maid, took her from Jorja’s arms.
“I’ll take care of her,” she said.
From that point on, everyone took care of the baby. Mary would cry in the middle of the night and Jorja would rush into the room, only to find me, sitting in a chair, holding Mary. Or I would hear the baby cry and I would hurry into her room to find Jorja sitting there, rocking her. We all raced to pick her up at the first sign of her crying, day or night. The minute we picked Mary up, she would stop crying.
Finally, I said to Jorja, “Honey, I think we’re spoiling her. We’re giving her too much love. We should cut out half of it.”
Jorja looked at me and said, “All right. You cut out your half.”
That was the end of that discussion.
CHAPTER 26
One Monday morning, my assistant buzzed me. “There’s a Mr. Robert Smith here to see you.”
I had never heard of him. “What does he want?”
“He’s a writer. He wants to talk to you.”
“All right. Send him in.”
Robert Smith was in his thirties, small, tense, and nervous.
“What can I do for you, Mr. Smith?”
“I have an idea,” he said.
In Hollywood, everyone had ideas and most of them were terrible. I pretended to be interested. “Yes?”
“Why don’t we make a movie about Buster Keaton.”
I was immediately excited.
Buster Keaton, the silent screen’s “Great Stone Face,” was one of the top stars of silent pictures. His trademark was a porkpie hat, slap shoes, and a deadpan expression. He was a short, slender, sad-faced actor who had been instrumental in the production and direction of his movies, and who had been compared to Chaplin.
Buster Keaton had been an enormous success and then, when sound came in, his luck began to change. He made several unsuccessful movies and was finding it difficult to get work. He starred in a few unmemorable shorts and was finally reduced to creating stunts for other actors. I thought that his story would be fascinating to put on the screen.
Robert Smith said, “You and I can produce it, write the screenplay, and you should direct it.”
I held up a hand. “Not so fast. Let me talk to Don Hartman.”
I went in to see Hartman that afternoon.
“What’s up?”
“A writer named Bob Smith came to me with an idea I like. He suggested we do The Buster Keaton Story.”
There was no hesitation. “That’s a great idea. I wonder why someone didn’t think of it before.”
“Bob and I will produce it and I’ll direct it.”
He nodded. “I’ll start working on getting the rights. Who did you have in mind to play Buster?”
“I haven’t had time to give it much thought.”
Don Hartman said, “I’ll tell you who should play him. Donald O’Connor.”