I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [161]
Visiting LA for a television special when both Brads were away, I had the most sumptuous meal cooked for me by Annette and Lobelia, twitting and giggling around the kitchen like two beautiful birds. It was remarkable how similar Annette was to Lobelia—the dark hair, broad cheeks, enormous dark eyes, laughter, and vitality.
Annette and Brad Jr. eventually had three children, but, to my regret, I never had occasion to meet them, for, not long after the first was born, Brad Jr. was stationed overseas.
His assignment was Trieste, Italy, where his specialty—the languages and cultures of Serbia, Croatia, Bosnia, and Slovakia—would be invaluable. I remembered Trieste from our New York City Ballet tour there. The riots near the theater, and my guilt in deserting a company full of exhausted and injured dancers to go off to Hollywood.
“That’s a volatile area. What’s he going to do over there?” I asked, and Lobelia dropped hints, vague mentions of the lives and deaths of “Brad’s friends in Communist Yugoslavia.” I caught the gist that he was running agents. Brad Jr. was a spy!
Nothing would have torn Lobelia away from her husband, Bradford—except a grandchild. Every moment she could pry away, she visited Brad Jr., Annette, and their baby, Brad III. She was in heaven, and the cherub was not the only reason. In Italy, Lobelia could indulge: the opera at La Scala, the art in Florence, unbelievable Venice, Naples, and Rome, all while delving into Italian cuisine and cuddling her grandchild. She took up shuttling between her home with Bradford Sr. in South Pasadena and Brad Jr.’s family in Italy—which, with Annette’s pregnancies, kept growing.
Sometime around 1969, I received a letter from Lobelia that Bradford Sr. was ill. He had a previous heart condition and had developed cancer on top of that. “He’s fighting bravely, Jacques, and never complains. But it doesn’t look good.”
Shortly after I heard of Bradford’s illness, I was engaged to perform on The Ed Sullivan Show with the ballerina Marnee Morris as my partner. We opened the show and were followed by a rock singer—a seedy-looking, emaciated, and slump-shouldered woman with pockmarked, pale skin: Janis Joplin. Marnee and I had just finished our performance, and Janis was watching from the wings. “Hey, dancer,” she said, “I like you, and I like the way you move. The band and I plan to party tonight and I’d love for you to come with us. You too …” She gestured toward Marnee. Without waiting for an answer, she went onstage to perform. Marnee couldn’t believe it. “She’s coming on to you … and she’s so famous. Let’s watch her segment, and then go to the party.” Marnee was into that rock and hippie stuff. Not me. She headed for the party and on to a night of drugs with Janis and her band. I headed home to inquire, “Carrie, who’s Janis Joplin?”
That same night, Lobelia called me. There’s a three-hour time difference between New York and LA, and they had just finished watching The Ed Sullivan Show. Bradford was in bed. “Jacques, he forgot his pain and illness during your performance,” Lobelia said. “It’s the first time in all these months of suffering that I can remember him being happy. He kept saying, ‘How I love the ballet.’ ”
They had made plans for her life after his death, which was imminent—Lobelia would sell the house and go live with Brad Jr., Annette, and their children. Soon Lobelia’s letters were coming from Africa. Brad Jr.’s latest assignment was Gaborone, Botswana. It was an exotic place, very different from northern Italy. There, Lobelia planned to play with her now three grandchildren, especially the new baby, Geoff. She hoped to renew her life.
In the mid-1970s, Lobelia informed me, “Brad Jr.’s to be stationed in Washington, D.C. We’re coming home! We’re finally leaving Africa!” She sounded relieved. “It’s time to come back, it’s time for the children to learn about America and being American.”
They set up house in Bethesda, Maryland,