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From the moment of its publication in 1977, Haywire was a national sensation and a #1 bestseller, a celebrated Hollywood memoir of a glittering family and the stunning darkness that lurked just beneath the surface.
Brooke Hayward was born into the most enviable of circumstances. The daughter of a famous actress and a successful Hollywood agent, she was beautiful, wealthy, and living at the very center of the most privileged life America had to offer. Yet at twenty-three her family was ripped apart. Who could have imagined that this magical life could shatter, so conclusively, so destructively? Brooke Hayward tells the riveting story of how her family went haywire.
of amongst those who think of these things. Kind of a family retainer.” Bill chuckled again. “When Father found out about my plot to skip out on Lawrenceville [Bill had left Eaglebrook that year to return to Lawrenceville], he made a surprise appearance there and said he’d like to drive me into New York and have me talk to this old family friend named Dr. Lawrence Kubie. Part of my escape plan was to go to New York anyway, so I figured it would save me the train fare, plus Father had the biggest
“Remember how she used to sit on our beds when we were sick? I miss the way she smelled—Clorox, tobacco, coffee, toast. If she were here now, I’d sit on her lap and she’d rock me …” I peered at Bill through my lashes, not wanting to let in too much light. But the room was already dark. “What time is it? How’s Father?” “Still asleep. I wish I could sleep that soundly.” “Me, too. I’m afraid.” “Of what?” Bill’s chair scraped close to mine. “Right this minute? Everything. You name it.” I closed
$200,000 from the government. He put John Swope in charge of Thunderbird II, and then moved swiftly to build Falcon Field, forty miles east of Thunderbird, near Mesa, Arizona, for the training of young British pilots. By the time the novices had completed their twenty weeks of training, they were able to swoop out of a pitch-black sky and make a blackout landing in their big North American AT-6’s on a field lit only by a couple of small flare pots. John Swope said the Chinese were the smartest
would never see him again and if I did, we would probably dislike each other. So I assumed I was deluding myself: how could I fall in love with a man as different from—let’s say your father—without its being loneliness or perversity? Or a bit of both? And the less we had in common, the easier it was to pretend love. He was no part of my past and seemed to have no stake in my future. Then, when I came home, I was even sadder and lonelier than before, because I had to face reality again and all the
company was nailing away, building scenery, installing seats: Fonda and I were way up on the grid for 72 hours putting in the counterweight system, Fonda face down most of that time, stretched out over the beams on his stomach, while I swung below him in a boatswain’s gear with a mouthful of nails trying to thread the ropes through the sheaves; Windust was everywhere, still running around with a handkerchief around his head. “It was a very complicated show, The Devil in the Cheese, one of the