By Myself and Then Some (30 page)

With darling Peter Stone -first day of rehearsal for
Woman of the Year
, 1981

Our first night down there consisted of boat talk – Bogie showing off his ‘Baby’ – me trying to find something in common with someone.
This was really foreign territory. The evening wore on, the drinking continued, the talk got muddled – finally we got into the putt-putt and rode out to his boat, anchored in front of the yacht club. It made me apprehensive when Bogie drank a lot. I continued to talk to him as if he were sober – being reasonable, expecting him to be. I don’t know what happened this time – when or how the click in his brain took place – but suddenly he was fighting with me. I got more and more frightened. He started slamming his fist on the table, crying ‘You goddamn actresses are all alike.’ The more I tried to cajole and pacify him, the worse he got. I started to cry. He shouted, ‘Don’t give me that crap. The hell with you – I’m leaving.’ And he got off the boat. As I heard the outboard motor chugging away, I cried even harder. I didn’t understand why he had lost his temper – I went over and over the whole evening and still couldn’t latch on to any reason. I’d never seen fury like his – unreasonable, lashing out. I hated it. I was trapped on the boat, and I was terrified that someone might have heard us shouting. I couldn’t bear to live like this, but I just didn’t know what to do. How can anyone explain what drink can do to people? You just have to live through it and figure it out for yourself as you go along. I cried half the night, solving nothing.

Very early in the morning Bogie returned. He was filled with remorse – didn’t know why he’d behaved that way – he would never hurt me – he must have lived through so many years of drinking and fighting that he had simply continued that pattern last night. He was miserable about his failings, and again I had to reverse positions and reassure him. I finally figured out some months later that in his cups he had confused me with Mayo and acted accordingly. I remained alert over the next months, watching for signs on drinking nights. But it was not necessarily the same things that set him off, so there was no way for me to be prepared. Mark Hellinger used to tell him he drank like a kid, mixing his drinks – Mark drank one thing all night and stuck to it. Bogie would have Rob Roys before dinner – or martinis, which were always deadly (one is too many and two aren’t enough) – beer with dinner – Drambuie after.

It was a lot for twenty years old to handle. I don’t know how I did, except that when you’re twenty, it never occurs to you that you can’t.

H
oward’s initial instinct was confirmed. The Big Sleep
was cut and being scored, he did need one more scene between Bogie and me. The scene would be one of those sex-by-inference scenes – locale, a smoky bar. He could cut it in easily and it would only take a few days to shoot. I hadn’t seen Howard for a couple of months – my relationship with him and, more sadly, with Slim had faltered. He was friendly, though, and the scene, written by Jules Furthman, was a good one. Everyone was professional on the set – smiling, warm, but impersonal. The days went well – made me wish for another film for the three of us – but that was not to be.

I appeared on an overseas broadcast with Bob Hope and Bing Crosby, and shook as much as on the first day of shooting my first film. There was a large audience, and I remember Bing standing next to me with his arm lightly around my waist, knowing my nerves and letting me know he was there helping – and Bob Hope doing handstands in front of us.

Mayo had been in Reno for two weeks when word reached Bogie she had come into L.A. Hurried calls to Morgan and the lawyer – ‘Christ, can’t you make her stay there? This will go on forever.’ And some of the gossiping press – Jimmy Fidler, the trade papers – would not leave us alone. All in all, it was a very nervous, tentative time. Mayo was prevailed upon to go back, but those two days in Los Angeles lost us two weeks, since she had to start all over again. Bogie was worried. When he drank worried, the results were not terrific. He feared that maybe it wasn’t going to happen for us, that something would go wrong, so he’d lash out at me on the defensive. It was only serious for a moment, but he certainly kept me on my toes.

At last the six weeks in Reno were coming to a close. If all went well, Bogie would be free on the tenth of May. He started to make plans. Calls to Louis Bromfield and George. We wouldn’t have any time – he didn’t want to wait until he’d finished his movie. With all my talk about how he’d been married all his life, how he needed his freedom, I didn’t want to wait either. So it was finally decided. We’d leave California on a Friday, arrive in Ohio on Sunday; on Monday, May 21, we’d be married, and on Tuesday we’d start back to California. That way they’d only have to shoot around Bogie five days, and I could start
Confidential Agent
the following Monday.

We were walking on air. The wedding would be simple and short.
George and Louis would arrange blood tests, license – everything. Bogie and I went to Gershgorn to choose our gold-chain wedding bands. We were photographed at the studio. Jack Warner gave me a 1941 black Buick convertible as a bonus, and I felt very glamorous, particularly with the top down. My family were all very happy for me – they liked Bogie enormously after New York and felt he’d do everything to make my life a good one. Mother was excited and teary – she’d stay with us round-trip and then go back East for a while. I found a very simple pale-pink wool suit, Mother a brown silk dress, for the wedding. Charlie Einfeld told Bogie that
Life
wanted to send their top photographer in the train with us. ‘Great,’ said Bogie, ‘maybe he’d like to photograph us fucking.’ That took care of that. The press were having a field day. I’d go to Bogie every day and hold up five fingers, four, three, and so on, to signify days left before he was trapped. Tony Martin had recorded a song called ‘Mrs Me’ months before and Bogie and I played it constantly – it was very hokey, very romantic, sentimental, but we were all those things, so it was perfect for us. At long last we didn’t have to be careful anymore. We could go anywhere together, holding hands for all to see. Miraculously, we found a house on King’s Road in the Hollywood Hills above the Strip. It was on three levels, very modern and completely furnished. I fell in love with it – the great view, patio with lawn on the second level, above the bedroom, and large study on the third. There was no land, but I wasn’t thinking of land then. We couldn’t take occupancy immediately, so we’d stay at the Garden of Allah until we finished our pictures.

Nothing could go wrong for us. All of Bogie’s friends – who had begun to be
our
friends – were happy about it. There was nothing to mar our joy. I immediately became part of Bogie’s generation – being the chameleon I was, it automatically seemed the thing to do.

W
e boarded the Super Chief
on the eighteenth of May with photographers at the Pasadena station to send us on our way. We’d spoken to Louis and George, who had told us Mansfield and Lucas, Ohio, had never seen anything like the multitudes of press that were gathering there. The Bromfield phone never stopped ringing with requests for permission to pitch tents on the farm grounds – they had to call the police to keep crowds away, and George was the man to deal
with all of them. Louis was busy being photographed in old corduroy pants looking like a farmer. He loved the fuss. They never had a better time.

George and Louis met us at the station and we headed for the farm. Arrangements had been made for a doctor to come over that night for our blood tests, and the next morning we were to be at the courthouse at 9:00 a.m. to get our license. The press were being held in abeyance as much as possible. There was no way for them not to be there after the ceremony, and a couple of them got into the house before, but the police would keep all strangers off the premises. Such excitement. The Bromfield kitchen was alive with activity – almost everyone connected with the farm had an assignment. The Dragon, as Louis called his mother, sat through it all strong and fierce. Hope, the Bromfields’ second daughter, would play the Wedding March as George and I walked down the long, curved stairway. He was giving me away – Louis was best man – Mother was my matron of honor. The house was shining, every table waxed, brass polished – it was truly beautiful. Bogie and I were ridiculous, holding hands like teenagers (I almost was one), we mooned and swooned – there has never been a more perfect time.

Judge Shettler arrived. He said he felt honored to be marrying us and he explained what the ceremony would be: very short, simple, but very real. ‘Cherish’ was to be substituted for ‘obey.’ He was a lovely man. How could I think otherwise? He was going to join me to the man who meant everything in the world to me. I couldn’t believe my luck. I knew the sweetness and gentleness of Bogie better than anyone. He was an old-fashioned man – laughingly he’d referred to himself as a last-century boy, having entered the world on Christmas Day 1899.I felt as though I owned the world, and I did. My every dream and hope, and far beyond, were to be realized. I couldn’t have wished for a man as incredibly good as this man was. And even so I didn’t realize every quality of Bogie’s on that day. He was to surprise and delight me continually in the ensuing years.

The happy house went to sleep at a late hour – it was not a night for sleep. We managed a few hours. I had to rise to roll up my hair so as not to frighten the groom. My last hours of what was known as single blessedness. I wrapped a scarf round my head and off we went for the license. As I had stayed the night in Lucas, I was acknowledged a resident – a prerequisite. Again photographers. All went smoothly –
Louis and George signed the piece of paper, and back to the magical farm to prepare for my giant step into a new life. My suit was pressed and hanging in my room. I was beginning to get nervous. I took a bath – laid out my something blue (a slip with my name embroidered on it), my something old (Bogie had told the press that would be him, but it was my identification bracelet that he’d given me), something borrowed (a handkerchief from Mother), and something new (everything else I wore). The wedding was to be at high noon. Bogie, dressed in gray flannel – I refused to see him before the wedding, being superstitious – was pacing downstairs, succumbing to a martini before the ceremony. Mother was helping Mary Bromfield set things up and asking me if I needed anything. I put my arms around her before getting dressed and gave her many kisses and told her how much I loved her. After her trip East, she was going to live in California for the time being. She liked it, and why not? I loved having her close by.

I was finally dressed, though running to the john every five minutes – make-up on, hair combed. Time was moving very slowly until suddenly, all at once, it was five minutes of twelve. George was knocking on my door. ‘Are you ready, Baby?’ I was Baby to many friends by that time, though no one said it quite the way Bogie did. I opened the door, we hugged each other, I gave him the ring. I was so nervous – began to shake. ‘Hope’s at the piano, ready to start. Bogie’s very itchy standing with Louis, who is also very itchy. Everyone who works on the farm is assembled at the back of the entry hall – the family in front. Shall I give the signal?’ Okay, I said. While he was signaling, I made my last dash for the john – my kidneys were no help that day. In the bathroom I could hear the start of the Wedding March. Oh God, why hadn’t she waited? Later George told me Bogie had looked up and said, ‘Where is she?’ George’s romantic reply: ‘Hold it – she’s in the can.’ I emerged – Hope started again – and George and I started our descent. My knees shook so, I was sure I’d fall down the stairs. Bogie standing there looking so vulnerable and so handsome – like a juvenile. Mother as nervous as I, trying to keep her eyes from spilling over, a smile on that sweet face. Little Ellen and large Ann Bromfield, Mary, Hope, the cook – all those faces. Prince, Louis’ favorite boxer, was the only dog allowed in. My knees were knocking together, my cheek was twitching – would any sound come out when I had to say ‘I do’? We turned the corner. When I reached Bogie, he took
my hand – the enormous, beautiful white orchids I was holding were shaking themselves to pieces; as I stood there, there wasn’t a particle of me that wasn’t moving visibly. The Judge was speaking – addressing me – and I heard a voice I’d never heard before say those two simple words of total commitment. Bogie slipped the ring on my finger – it jammed before it reached the knuckle, the trembling didn’t help, and then it finally reached its destination. As I glanced at Bogie, I saw tears streaming down his face – his ‘I do’ was strong and clear, though. George wisely kept my ring for Bogie on one of his own fingers through the ceremony, so it went very neatly onto Bogie’s. As Judge Shettler said, ‘I now pronounce you man and wife,’ Bogie and I turned toward each other – he leaned to kiss me – I shyly turned my cheek – all those eyes watching made me very self-conscious. He said, ‘Hello, Baby.’ I hugged him and was reported to have said, ‘Oh, goody.’ Hard to believe, but maybe I did.

Everyone hugged and kissed everyone else and more tears were shed. Bogie said it was when he heard the beautiful words of the ceremony and realized what they meant – what they
should
mean – that he cried.