'Wouldn't that be nice,' Mary would say to me as I walked her home, 'if someday you did become an actor and I was your wife and we went to the movies every night and just sat looking at you!' But I guess some of that talk rubbed off on me those nights I used to sit there with Mary listening, all wide-eyed, to my mom. "The thought of being an actor seemed so silly, then. She thought it was very glamorous and a lot of fun and she would tell us how she wanted to be an actress when she was a young girl, and she'd always add, 'And maybe, Hughie, you'll want to be an actor some day?' Or she'd talk about the theater and movies and acting. My mother had a feeling about living - I learned it from her, and follow it to this day: I enjoyed yesterday, I love today I look forward to tomorrow. Or if we were at my house, we'd listen to my mother talk about life. Then, if we were at Mary's house, we'd sit and listen to the radio.
"At night, after supper, we'd get together and do our homework. Some of the other kids didn't think very much of this, but it always made me feel nice to know that she was there, just watching me, just with me. If I went to play baseball or football or anything, Mary would always tag along with me. But no, Mary would come with me, wherever I wanted to go. "After lunch, Mary and I would go back to school and you'd probably figure that at three o'clock, for a few hours at least, Mary would go her way and I would go mine.
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O' Brian, when I get big, will you teach me how to make this for Hughie?' Spaghetti, and Mary always used to say, 'Mrs. Then, at lunchtime, we'd always eat together - if we went to Mary's house her mother would usually make bacon and peanut butter sandwiches, which we used to gobble up, Mary two and me three. "Mary lived only a few blocks from me and every morning I used to call for her on her porch and we'd go to school together. It's fantastic, but for the next 10 years we were together all the time, practically every hour of practically every day. I remember how the first time I saw her I just enjoyed looking at her and how a couple of days later, after we got over our first shyness, we began talking to each other. She was very pretty, the prettiest girl I'd ever seen. "I remember," Hugh says now, "how I met Mary, that first day of school in Winnetka, Illinois, when the teacher assigned us to seats and Mary's was at the desk next to mine. Mary was dead and, without shame, he stood there and looked down at the beautiful, almost-smiling face and cried, until someone came over to him, took his arm and led him over to a chair where he could sit and cry some more and take a long last look at his girl and remember. "I got the telegram that you wanted to see me. "It's Hughie, Mary," he said, his voice breaking. "Mary?" he called as he grabbed the sides of the smooth white coffin and stared down at the girl he'd loved so much. "Mary?" he called as he ran across the room and past the people who were seated silently in the neat rows of bridge chairs which fanned out from the back wall. "Mary?" he called, as though by some miracle she might answer him. And then suddenly, without any warning, he was standing in the doorway leading to the big room with the carnations and the other flowers - and he saw her. The next few steps were the longest he'd ever taken in his life.
He tried to say, "What are you sorry about? What's wrong with everybody, anyway?" But instead he took another deep breath and the heavy smell of carnations from another room, a room not too far away, nearly choked him and he walked past the girl without saying anything. Two girls were standing in the lobby, their eyes red, their hands clutching at their pocketbooks, as Hugh walked in. The others remained in the car while they watched him walk very slowly to the door of the funeral parlor, open it, stand rigid for a few moments and then go inside. Instead he stared out the window to his right, at a highly-polished plaque on which somebody had carefully and coldly chipped out the words: Undertaker: Day and Night Service.
we're here." The tall, eighteen-year-old boy didn't move. "Hugh," his mother said, softly, as she took his arm. But he took a deep breath and clenched his fists and he had a hard time not shouting out, "There aren't going to be any tears or any breaking down, folks - because Mary isn't dead, Mary couldn't be dead, Mary couldn't really have died just like that and left me!" He knew that the others in the car were watching him out of the corners, of their eyes, to see if he'd begin to break down, begin to cry. Hugh O'Brian took a deep breath as the car pulled up to the little funeral parlor. Hugh O'Brian Became Actor After Winning Blind Date with Virginia Mayo Hugh O'Brian, television's Sheriff Wyatt Earp
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