At the end of the 1950s, the life of Mrs. John Wayne was far from picture perfect. Like me, my mother relied on him, felt secure when he was near, and could come undone when work stole him away. She also had an additional cross to bear. My Peruvian mother was still in cultural passage, adjusting to the racing pulse and swollen narcissism of Hollywood. Some of this was heady. Much of it left her displaced and insecure. Eventually, her glittering new life-style nearly cost my mother her life. By the time we moved to Newport Beach in 1965, my father rarely attended Hollywood parties. He still saw his old Hollywood friends—Claire Trevor, Maureen O’Hara, Dean Martin, John Ford, Henry Hathaway—but always in relaxed surroundings. When he did have to attend showy Hollywood functions, he often came home chafing, “Every one you go to, you see the same damn people, saying the same damn things. All that changes is the women’s dresses.” The older he became, the more my father hated flashiness.
