Steve and I got married on September 16, 1968, in Las Vegas. No one from my family was there. No one I knew was there, except Steve. Ten days later the second season aired.
12
Peter
I KNEW HE WAS there before I actually knew. Even before I could register any changes in my body, I knew. I didn’t try to be pregnant. Then again, I didn’t try not to be pregnant. I just didn’t think about it. Perhaps all thoughts of conceiving stayed locked in the attic along with everything else sexual or erotic, the part of me that stayed out of Steve’s sight. Be that as it may, six months after driving to Las Vegas, then returning the next day as a married woman, just as filming on the second season was wrapping up, I realized that I was with child and everything changed.
It seemed as if I’d gone to sleep in a cave and woken up on a mountaintop with a view of the whole world. I felt honored, proud to be female, powerfully capable of miracles. But the thought of having to tell anyone at the studio, who would then inform the horrified network, made me feel protective not only of the baby but of myself. Or maybe, protective of the baby, and therefore myself. My soon-to-be baby was nobody’s business but my own. I didn’t want to hear their qualified words of congratulations said through clenched teeth or take the chance that I would sound apologetic or ashamed. Steve made all the appropriate calls, becoming a real partner as he alerted those who needed to know in a businesslike fashion, while I sat listening from a safe distance, feeling cared for. And after many calls back and forth, plus a few days of tearing their hair out, the producers came up with a plan. We would shorten our hiatus, go back into production earlier than planned, and—if the scripts could be written in time—we’d have almost the entire season in the can before mid-October, my ninth month. At that time, I’d be given maternity leave.
When Lucille Ball discovered she was pregnant in the midst of filming I Love Lucy, her condition was written into the series, creating a television event in 1953 when she gave birth to little Ricky on the show and Desi Arnaz Jr. in real life. When Elizabeth Montgomery found out she was expecting her second child, an entire season of Bewitched was developed around the impending arrival of the little witch, Tabitha. But sadly, there were no story lines that could be woven into The Flying Nun to accommodate my condition—at least not in 1969. Instead, I’d have to hide my nonimmaculate conception.
It helped that the habit I wore was already a shapeless sack, but when filming began on season three, the loose belt around my middle was no longer loose and soon became an elastic-backed, expandable item, growing as it moved higher and higher up my body with each episode. Before long, I started carrying bulky objects in every scene: a stack of books or a vase filled with flowers, flowers that went from daisies to gladiolus as my girth became more and more difficult to hide. Finally, there was nothing big enough I could carry, since a refrigerator was out of the question. From that point on, I had to be shot in close-ups.
Also, new methods of flying, without wires and that godforsaken harness, had to be invented. Luckily the stunt person had been doing all the wider outside shots since halfway through the first year. It was only the closer ones where I was needed. But it couldn’t have taken much thought to change the position of the camera and shoot me from below instead of straight on. I’d stand on a platform, then lean over the wide, specially built railing, and with the green screen behind and slightly above me, Sister Bertrille could be sent anywhere. A quicker, less torturous way to achieve the same half-assed illusions. Hallelujah.
And as that year moved along, hitting my marks while holding an armful of purposeless props, reciting meaningless dialogue—all the monotonous moments that for two years had made me feel powerless and trapped—became background noise to a larger symphony inside me. I didn’t even care what I looked like, waddling around the lot dressed as a nun. If I hadn’t been a walking sight gag before, I sure as hell was now.
One afternoon, when they were setting up a shot onstage, I went outside to get a glimpse of daylight and a 7UP from the vending machine. It must have been early October because I was so round my habit was getting tight. And as I walked duck-like down the wide ramp—counting change in my hand—I collided with a tall man walking up, deep in conversation with a heavyset woman. The coins flew in the air every which way, and when I heard the instantly recognizable voice say, “Oh my,” I looked up into the face of Cary Grant. All I could say was “Oh God.” Without missing a beat, he said, “Oh God is right,” then gestured toward my bulging midsection, adding, “Does he know about this, Sister?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Always important to keep him in the loop,” he replied, then picked up all the coins, carefully placed them in the palm of my hand, flashed me that Grant grin, and walked on. I’ll never forget it.
With Steve handling our finances, I purchased a home in Bel Air and for the fourth time in three and a half years, I moved. It wasn’t a mansion behind iron gates, not like the houses that Bel Air is famous for, but a smaller one way at the top, past all the grand estates. I had no idea of its cost because I was still too frightened of money to look. I knew only that it was a small midcentury-style house situated in an area reminiscent of my first Tarzana neighborhood and felt like something I could afford. But unlike my childhood home, it was bright, with lots of glass and a view looking out on the Santa Monica Mountains. A perfect place to launch a new life.
And every piece of me felt him, a foot sliding down, an elbow poking out, and I’d want to shout, “WOW.” I knew what side he preferred I sleep on and how he calmed with my touch. I rested when I was tired and ate when I was hungry because he needed me to. With my childhood soulmate at my side, and the constant assurance of the future pushing against my rib cage, I felt… contentment. And only now do I realize that that is what I felt.
Once, I woke in the night unable to get comfortable and fall back to sleep. I poked Steve in the side, then watched him shoot out of bed in a panic, thinking something was wrong. But no, I just couldn’t sleep. We got up and I perched on the kitchen stool watching him make banana pancakes, something I kept saying I didn’t want. With a big tray of food between us, we sat in bed, watching an old black-and-white movie, and I know nothing will ever taste as good as that syrupy mess. Maybe it was hormonal, but I’ve had three children and it never felt quite like that again. Everything quieted in me and I let myself need someone, allowed myself to be dependent on this one person and never doubted that he would be there. Steve. I had that once in my life. Maybe that’s enough.