I wasn’t starstruck. I was thunderstruck the moment Ralph Bellamy opened the door. 

My father rang the bell. I stood back with my mother.  They were close with the Bellamys, and I was invited to join for dinner. I was 14.  A first meeting, if you will.

There he stood, six foot plus. Tanned and trim. Linen pants, a soft colored pastel sweater, and white Gucci shoes. I can’t stand white shoes, but on him the gold buckle glistened on his sockless, browned feet. I was speechless. And that was a first.

I extended my hand.

“Stop that nonsense,” he implored in his deep-throated voice as he hugged me. I returned it. Big time.

My father never hugged me. Not once.  So, in Ralph’s arms I instantly felt safe and accepted.  I had a teenage crush on an older man.  It endured from that moment until his last.

I cannot count the times Ralph and I sat together in his comfy den while I listened to his stories of film, Broadway and a cast of those he worked with and admired.   They were legends.  Spencer Tracy, Cary Grant, Rosalind Russell, Lucille Ball, and his best friend, James Cagney.  Although he was a confirmed and devoted Democrat – he even had a handsome framed photo with JFK on the wall – he praised his fellow actor and POTUS, Ronald Reagan. I asked if he had voted for him.

“I never reveal my votes.”  And that was that.

A girlfriend asked me if Ralph was as gentile as the wealthy scion he played in Pretty Woman.  I assured her, yep – and so much more.

“Then how could he be so convincingly evil as the Doctor Saperstein in Rosemary’s baby?”

I recalled a story my father relayed.

“When Darryl Zanuck was studio head of 20^th Century Fox, he kept on his desk, under glass, the names of a select few actors that were so versatile and talented they could take on any role.  Ralph was one of those players.”

There was no doubt. In fact, after his role as Roosevelt in Sunrise at Campobello, I began to address him as Mr. R because he was so convincing.  He feigned annoyance.

Ralph always said he wouldn’t have been half as successful without his dynamic wife, Alice. She was a force of nature, and I simply adored her. Her salt and pepper hair was always pulled into a tight bun around her tiny, handsome face. She once told me the trick to her flawless skin, but sadly, I forgot. She had a deep, gravelly voice, and her sense of humor paled only to her warmth and devilish grin.

It was she, on a cold November in 1991, who phoned me.  By then, I was married and living in Chappaqua, New York with my husband and children.

“Jennifer. Ralph is very sick in St John’s Hospital.”

I hung up, made a reservation and flew West.

When I arrived in his room, Alice looked up at me.

“He’s dying, Jenn.”

There he was.  Statue-like, but faintly tanned. Still Ralph. There was a male nurse sitting by his bedside.

“He hasn’t spoken or recognized anyone in days,” the nurse whispered.

I moved closer, and touched his hand. He stirred, and opened his powder blue eyes.

“Jennifer. You’re here.”

Startled, I managed one simple phrase: “I love you, Ralph.”

Before I left, Alice asked me to deliver a eulogy. I was flattered and humbly agreed.

That evening, Ralph Rexford Bellamy, 87, closed his eyes for the last time.

I felt numb and ill-equipped to write about a man who meant the world to me.  So, in a moment of anxiety, I phoned Alice and reneged.  She was not pleased and even attempted to dissuade me. Despite my radio career, I was intimidated and shy of live crowds. Speaking to invisible people on air was a no brainer. Recounting my passion and love of Ralph was not. It was too much.

The morning of the funeral I took my seat inside the Hollywood Forest Lawn Chapel – an impressive, beautifully ordained church with white wooden pews and stained glass windows. The ceilings soared. A.C. Lyles, a distinguished producer with a shock of white hair, played the master of this ceremony.  It was his designated role for most of the funerals of the rich and or famous.

I stared straight ahead, as one of the eulogists returned to his seat. Lyles took the pulpit once more.

“And now Jennifer Dudley will give a eulogy for Ralph.”

My jaw hit the floor.  I sat shocked and sinking in quicksand.  I know a great deal about panic attacks.  This was a top ten. No notes. No preparation. No eulogy.

I considered running. But that didn’t seem like a brilliant option. So I walked – to the altar, up the steep stairs and onto the pulpit. I looked out at hundreds of people, blurred their faces, and zoned in on Alice. Then, I took a deep breath and stated the first thing that came to me.

“I loved Ralph. He was a father to me.”

Without hesitation, I began to tell the first story that bubbled up.

——–

I had been working as a production assistant on a musical special at Twentieth Century Fox.  I despised the job and the director. So when I was invited to volunteer for the re-election of Senator John Tunney, I fled. Right down Olympic Boulevard.

In less than two weeks, I was added to the paid staff as a press aide and media consultant. Not bad for a 22-year-old without a college degree or political experience. But, then again, the Ivy League doesn’t have courses in street smarts, intuition, inexhaustible energy and social skills. I aced all of that.

One morning, my intercom rang.  It was our campaign manager.

“Jennifer, David Garth and his team will be here tomorrow. I want you to work with them.”

I was happy to go, but who the hell was David Garth? I turned and asked the Press Secretary. He smirked, and leaned back in his swivel chair.

“Jennifer, what would you like me to do today?” I had struck a nerve and his ego. Despite that, he filled me in. Garth was a political ad genius from New York. He’d cemented the careers of Mayor John Lindsay, Governor Hugh Carey, and numerous U.S. Senators.

Holy crap. What had I gotten myself into?

I stepped into my used red Audi, cruised down Wilshire, and pulled up to valet parking at the Beverly Hills Hotel. I walked in the back door, past Hernando’s Hideaway and the El Padrino Room.

David Garth and three of his team got out of the hotel’s middle elevator.  Garth was very short.  A stinky cigar hung out of his mouth.  He wasn’t just from New York. He WAS New York.  He was also overt with his immediate advances toward me.  I put that to rest in an L.A. minute.

Garth didn’t impress me. But his team member, Jeff Greenfield, sure did – a young guy with glasses, short, curly blond hair, ruddy skin, and a face that reflected intelligence and wit. Jeff was too humble to say that he had graduated with honors from Yale Law and become a Robert Kennedy’s speechwriter during the 1968 campaign.

We piled into my car and headed back to the campaign office for a confab with the major players.

I was outranked and outsmarted. But somehow, I was still a powerful player in this meeting, and I wasn’t sure why, until we got down to business.

Garth outlined that Tunney was neck and neck with S.I. Hayakawa, and they needed a celebrity to speak for Tunney in a series of TV ads.

We bandied about some names.  I mentioned Ralph Bellamy.  Garth was all over my choice.

“CAN YOU GET HIM???”

Dubious, I called Ralph anyway. He accepted immediately and graciously. Bonus.

The scripts were delivered to Ralph’s home. He, Garth and one of his staff read them. Everyone was delighted with his presence.  But later that day, everything went south.

For some ungodly reason, Garth did a flip-flop.  Or was it the Senator?

“Jennifer. We changed our minds. Jack Albertson will be doing the commercials.”

Holy shit.

I called Ralph to tell him the news.  I couldn’t see his face. I didn’t want to.  We ended the conversation without incident or anger. Until later that evening.

I had gone back to my tiny, garage apartment on North Beverly Drive to get some sleep. Or at least a cat nap. For those 9-to-5ers, campaign work is for insomniacs. It’s 19 hour-a-day, 7-day-a-week job.

A few hours later, the phone rang me out of a sound sleep.

“Jennifer.“ It was Senator Tunney. “Albertson backed out. Get Bellamy.”

It wasn’t a question. It was a powerful plea.

I was now fully awake. It was close to midnight.  We were scheduled to be on set at 8 AM at Warner Brothers.

I toyed with Ralph’s number. Twice. Three times.  Finally, I dialed. He answered, and I instantly knew I’d woken him up. I stumbled with the facts. Never had I heard him so annoyed or stern.

“Damnit, Jennifer. “

And then silence.  A long period of silence.

“Ralph are you still there?”

Another pause.

“Alright. I will be there.  But I’m only doing this for you.”

I arrived early and insisted one of Garth’s staff join. I needed a co-conspirator to this crime.  Who better than Greenfield?   Ralph arrived visibly upset and wouldn’t look at me. The three of us walked in the side door and passed some grips, a few cameramen, and couple of janitors sweeping up.

“Good morning, Mr. Bellamy,” each one said as he walked by. He really was a legend.  My chest swelled.

I stood on the side of Ralph’s makeup chair and attempted light conversation. He didn’t bite.  So we headed to the studio in silence.   Garth was there with his script in hand, and Ralph had his. I walked over to Greenfield.

“I think it would be best if I leave. Can you go over the lines with Ralph?”

Greenfield smiled.

“That’s not Ralph. That’s Roosevelt.”

I left, but not before I turned and saw the two of them sitting side by side.

I’m not sure who was more inspired by whom.

I believe it was a tie.

——–

The Chapel was quiet.  I looked up.