I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [160]
Bradford Sr. looked like a Madison Avenue ad agency’s dream. Fair-haired and slim, with rugged features and a westerner’s melodious voice, his manners were impeccable. Humorous crinkles bracketed his eyes, and one felt warm and safe in his company. His wife, Lobelia, with her broad cheekbones, grand smile, and generous heart, worshipped and doted on her Bradford. Vastly energetic, she was a brown-eyed houri, with an open and optimistic personality. When I arrived at their home after performance, she’d be up and waiting to feed me. In the morning, no matter how early I arose, breakfast would be laid out, Lobelia to keep me company.
Over the years, I stayed with them every time I visited Los Angeles, whether shooting a movie, a television show, or dancing with a ballet company. When I was not in Los Angeles, we communicated regularly—phone calls, letters, and postcards. Lobelia did most of the corresponding, and generally, her news dealt with Bradford. She supported and guarded him, geared the tempos of her life to his.
Bradford was a geologist and a wheeler-dealer in the oil business. An independent, he eschewed working for a corporation. Studying and analyzing various geographical areas, he would option mineral rights from the owners, form a consortium of partners, raise money, and dig a test well. If the well came up dry, millions were lost. If it gushed, hooray! … wealth! … Until it went dry! Then he would start over again, one day a millionaire, next a debtor.
Lobelia had dreamed of a life as a singer and actress, but instead fell in love with Bradford. Cooking, fussing over him, she made a beautiful home, and shared her passions—opera, ballet, and theater. When Bradford was off in the field, Lobelia channeled her tremendous energy, volunteering for arts organizations and dabbling in educational courses—Italian language, opera, Renaissance art, floral arrangement, and cooking classes.
Brad Jr. was an only child. He had his mother’s broad cheekbones and large frame, but his father’s fair hair and quiet reserve. His parents adored him, and he seemed to remain unspoiled—super-smart, analytical, and somewhat remote. Except when I was visiting. Playing Daniel Boone and Jim Bowie, we disturbed the drowsy quiet of Orange Grove, Pasadena, with the wild games of a pair of screeching Indians, blood whooping in our veins. I taught him how to throw knives, a skill developed in my days of hiking and camping. I bought a bow and arrow, and we put up a target in the back of the garage, opened its doors, and from the back of the house Robin Hooded our arrows (we hoped) straight into the bull’s eye, or at least somewhere near the garage.
Brad Jr. photographs his teacher demonstrating, Pasadena, late 1950s (image credit 16.1)
You would expect a young boy to be bugging me every time I was around, “Let’s go play at throwing knives again!” but that was not the case. It was I who always initiated the games. Gangly, athletic, strong, Brad Jr. was a quick study. When we played chess together, he would clench his jaw and concentrate intensely. In any of our games, he was determined to excel, to win. Though reticent, he was focused.
Four years passed. Brad Jr. and I grew up. When he was eighteen, I was twenty-one, and had just married Carrie. Now my wife and I stayed at the Bishops’ when we were in LA, and after our children were born, we all splashed around in the Bishops’ pool.
After Brad Jr. finished Yale, Lobelia conveyed to me somewhat mysteriously, “Oh, he’s enrolled in a military language school in Carmel, California.”
Then, she said, “Oh! He’s with military intelligence.”
Next, “Oh, he’s with the State Department,” though what exactly he did there was never mentioned.
One day, all excited and bubbly, Lobelia called me in New York City, full of details about Brad Jr.’s romance. “It’s serious, Jacques. He’s engaged to Annette, and she’s a darling. At his high school, she was a cheerleader when he was on the football team. And she loves the outdoors, Jacques! They’re always off bushwhacking in the woods