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Toward the end of 1953, Aria and I decided that if we were going to
live from hand to mouth why not do it in a nicer climate. We gave up the apartment, sold
the furniture, and drove to California with the rest of our possessions, arriving just
before Christmas. I’d bought a car in Hollywood with most of the proceeds from The
Saracen Blade and we’d cashed in our return train tickets and driven back to New
York.
We found a furnished two bedroom, single-story duplex in West Hollywood
on Hilldale, with full use of, and direct entry to, a huge back yard. Aria had decided she
wanted her own bedroom.
It was more a business relationship than a marriage. I had tried once
or twice to get out of it, but each time she was able to lure me back, by playing so ill
that I thought she was going to have a seizure. On one occasion, I packed an overnight bag
and moved to a hotel for several days. A close friend with whom I stayed in contact called
me at the hotel one afternoon and told me Aria was gravely ill. I hurried back to our
apartment to find her in bed being cared for by a girlfriend who told me Aria hadn’t
been able to keep any food down for days and refused to call a doctor. Having been
throwing up all that time she looked tired and haggard. She made me feel that if I left it
would destroy her. For such a great actress, it’s a shame she never made it. During a
several month period, after I moved back in, she was meek as a lamb, but slowly worked her
way back into the driver’s seat. It was amazing how, through mutual friends whom she
was also able to control, they could convince me I’d be lost without her.
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