By Myself and Then Some (55 page)

There was also Bogie’s dressing room at home to deal with – how I dreaded that. Everything in it reminded me of some occasion somewhere. I didn’t want to do it quickly, and yet what was the point of keeping all his things when they could do someone some good? Finally I made myself do it – when the children were in school. I set aside everything I thought would fit Lee – gave Aurelio some things – gave Kathy anything her grown-up son could use – saved all handkerchiefs for Steve – kept some silk shirts for myself. It was ghastly. I tried to psych myself into a business-like approach as I fiercely emptied cupboards and drawers. That odor was still in the air. It took quite a while for me to recover from that day.

Even home had less meaning – all the things in it so assiduously collected, with such love, all meant to last forever because we were to stay there forever. What did it mean to have these tables and chairs, these cups and saucers – what good was it? And I had thought, ‘This is permanent.’ It was ridiculous to accumulate things, to feel that possession gave safety – it’s true of neither people nor things. Every
object signified some portion of life with Bogie – I had brought nothing but myself to our marriage, and except for some original Maud Humphrey sketches which belonged to Bogie, everything we had lived with I had found since May 21, 1945.

And Steve was having problems at school. The teacher complained that he seemed withdrawn, but that suddenly during a class he would stand up and scream – very difficult to manage. What the hell did she expect? There he was surrounded by his school friends, hearing them talk about their mothers and fathers; he couldn’t do that ever again. I thought teachers were supposed to understand, have compassion, help. Did she expect him to behave according to her idea of normal?

At home he seemed much as usual, though a bit edgier – a bit more withdrawn. I had his friends over to play as often as possible, and Steve and Leslie went to their houses – lucky to have so many neighbor children. Every effort was made to keep the days normal. The home atmosphere was all right during the day, but at night – at dinnertime – it became tough. It was not an atmosphere of gloom, exactly, that pervaded the house, as much as the feeling of heaviness, emptiness – of a big something missing. There were no terrible crises with Stephen or Leslie, only the same one. I was mostly concerned with Steve – so much too much with him that I almost forgot my little girl. As I think back on Leslie’s mien, she just got quieter. All our emotions were raw.

Dore Schary had asked me if I would travel for three weeks to Boston, New York, Washington, Florida for publicity on
Designing Woman
. It was to open at the end of March. If I would go, it would take me through Easter, and Stephen and Leslie could come with me. I leaped at the chance – it was work of a sort, and a reason to be in New York, to see family and friends. A reason to leave Mapleton Drive. And it would give me something to look forward to.

Frank wanted to give a small dinner for me with only my closest friends before I was to leave for New York. He invited about ten people, including Spence and Kate. As they never went anywhere together except to our house through Bogie’s illness, I didn’t expect them to say yes, but, to my everlasting gratitude, they did. Katie even wore a dress, and I was so moved to see them sitting there in that living room, making that effort out of friendship – their sweetness was indescribable.

I was making a little progress. One afternoon I went to All Saints
Church to sit and think. I was not – am not – a religious person. I would like to believe there is a God – I want there to be – but I’m not sure. Yet it seemed the only place where I could sit undisturbed for as long as I liked and think my own private, confused thoughts. There was an aura of peace in that church, a calm I needed badly. And it was familiar, yet not. It answered my need.

I
arrived in New York
on April 1. It was my first time out publicly since Bogie’s death less than three months before. The press were welcoming and warm – the picture was enthusiastically received everywhere – no questions were asked about Bogie, only about the children.

I was so happy to see my family again – I really needed them. And I did not lack company; I was pampered to within an inch of my life. For the first time in my professional life, I was functioning as an independent actress, as a single woman. And since I loved
Designing Woman
, I felt better about my work than I had in years. The dark area was that Bogie was not around to share my pride – I had so wanted him to see me in it, to give me his approval.

It was strange to be out in the world again, unprotected. But it was good. It made me aware of the existence of other things. Adolph Green took me to see
Bells Are Ringing
, which had opened just before Bogie died. We went out afterward with Sydney Chaplin, who was in the show. We’d been with Betty Comden and her husband, Steve Kyle, met up with Harry Kurnitz and Marty Gabel and Arlene Francis and the George Axelrods along the way, ended up singing songs from the show at dawn on Fifth Avenue. My God, it was fun – the most carefree time I’d had in over a year. The whole time in New York was filled with excitement – unplanned, loose, easy nights. There was no time to think of what the last year had been. I thought this must be what David Niven had meant. ‘I feel all right – I can’t believe it – is it possible I’m going to be all right from now on?’ I believed it then – fool that I was.

Frank called several times to see how I was – when I would be coming home. He was the only unattached man I knew, and I was glad he was around. I suppose that, without realizing it, I was starting to depend on his phone calls.

Adlai had called also, and asked me to bring Steve and Leslie to his farm in Libertyville for Easter Sunday. I was thrilled – knew they would love it, knew that I would. He came to New York, too, and I saw him at a small dinner. He took me back to the hotel, came up for a nightcap, and talked to me about my life, and about life in general. He was so full of care and thought – I adored him, and felt lucky to have a tiny part of that great heart and mind.

Everything went right on that trip – friends, family; the critics liked the movie, I liked talking about it; I made my usual trip to Loehmann’s with Mother to buy acres of Norell samples – for what I don’t know. If I bought, perhaps I’d have places to go – people to see – a life to lead. From the day I could afford it, I’ve shopped too much. As my mother used to say as she looked at my hundred pairs of shoes, ‘How can you ever wear them? You only have two feet!’

Suddenly it was time to head for Chicago and home. I never liked saying goodbye to Mother, but she’d come out to see us in a few months. Except for Bogie, she was my most solid rock of love and security, and though the balance had shifted away from her during my marriage, it was shifting back.

Stephen, Leslie, and I took the
Twentieth Century
to Chicago. We were met by a car on Easter Sunday morning and headed for Libertyville. As we pulled into the driveway, Adlai opened the front door. He laughed – kissed me hello – hugged the children. I was overjoyed to see him – he always made me feel better than almost anyone else. It was as though my brain shifted gears when I saw him – I reactivated the better part of it. He’d planned the day for Stephen and Leslie, had hidden eggs around the house for an Easter egg hunt with a prize for the winner. There was a terrific lunch – I remember Adlai’s ravenous approach to food, as though each bite would be his last. A substitute for other gratifications, I’d always suspected. We had a marvelous walk in his woods after lunch. His love of the land was clear – his longing to spend more time there, lead a life there. I felt his loneliness acutely through the light banter. He was affectionate with me – concerned about my frame of mind and any plans I might have. We had tea before the fire – an unpressured day, unusual for each of us, and one of the best I’d had in a long time. The children felt immediately at home. I hadn’t known until then that Adlai could do that.

After a night at the Ambassador East in Chicago we flew home. The
three of us were very close. We’d gotten through our first holiday without Bogie.

Home looked beautiful. It had been good to get away and it was good to get back – until I went upstairs. I still half-expected to see Bogie in our bed, and remnants of that odor hung in the air. But I felt better than I had before leaving.

There were flowers from Frank to welcome me home.

Soon afterward there was a closed-circuit prizefight – the middleweight championship. Sugar Ray Robinson and Gene Fullmer. Frank had bought a row of seats in some theatre and invited me to go. He had meticulously striven to keep his private life out of the news – not easy when you are a natural news-maker. I had never thought much about celebrity after the insane exposure I’d had at the time of
To Have and Have Not
and my marriage. Bogie was a natural news-maker too, almost everything he said or did making a very loud noise in the press. I just lived my life, and the press and I had for the most part been on good terms. I gave no thought to being noticed on such a quiet evening, even with Frank, but when we emerged from the theatre there were photographers waiting, and the resulting pictures ended up in newspapers around the world. It was my first public outing in Hollywood – the first time Frank and I were linked, even tentatively, in a romantic way. I could never figure out how they knew I would be there. Much later I remember telling a friend I couldn’t understand why the press cared so much about Frank and me – why it made such a stir. This friend looked at me unbelievingly. ‘Don’t be a fool – you and Frank can’t go anywhere without causing a commotion. Individually you make news, but together it’s insane.’ The next eight months were to prove him right. Indeed, the next months were filled with intense and difficult moments of every kind.

One afternoon Harvey became ill – he lay down and started to foam at the mouth. I got him into the station wagon, had the vet alerted, and raced over to the Valley, shaking all the way. Harvey stood up in the back of the wagon with the white foam all around his muzzle, looking as though he didn’t understand what was happening. I kept saying, with quavering voice, ‘It will be all right, Harvey – lie down,’ kept talking to him while I couldn’t breathe, frantically trying not to hit a tree or another car. After examining him, Dr Winston said he’d had a heart attack – that he should stay quietly in the kennel for a couple of
days. I hated to leave that dog. The next day I could see he was even weaker. The doctor said, ‘I know how much you love Harvey – he’s a great dog. He’s had a good, healthy life – you don’t want to see him disintegrate. It would be a terrible thing for him to have to be confined. You can take him home if you want to in another day or so, but you must seriously consider putting him to sleep.’ I said I’d call the next day. Before leaving, Harvey had happily licked my face, telling me how glad he was to see me and how much better he was. About thirty minutes after I got home he called: ‘Harvey just died – he was happy – he’d just seen you, had just eaten his dinner and lay down and died. Lucky for him.’ I was destroyed, collapsed in tears. My Harvey – another big piece of my married life gone.

In August, Harry Kurnitz offered me his penthouse in New York. I’d never lived like a bachelor girl in New York in the summer when the city was empty. I decided to try it for two weeks. Steve was still in camp, Leslie in a play group – I’d return in time for her birthday party.

Harry’s apartment was perfect – tiny, with a balcony, on the corner of 75th and Park. It was fun to be in New York when only real workers were there. I had my little flirtations – and Mother. Walking in the city at night with the streets so empty made me feel as if I owned it.

Mother and I spent most of the days together. She loved going around with me. She’d come into Manhattan to meet me and we’d shop for the children – linen for my bed – antiques. My nights were my own secret adventures. A couple of mornings after our last shopping expedition she called me. ‘Can you come? I’m at Doctors’ Hospital.’ Her voice sounded funny, faraway. Then silence. I panicked – didn’t even know where Doctors’ Hospital was. I looked it up, rushed over, and, after hysterically questioning every nurse in sight, found her – in an oxygen tent. I shall not forget walking into that room, seeing her lying there, face to one side under the plastic tent, towel on her forehead. Unconscious. It was so unexpected. No warning. I started to shake. They – those faceless theys, I didn’t even know her doctor’s name – told me the first forty-eight hours were crucial. We’d just have to wait. I found a phone. The family started to arrive. Lee – white-faced. Charlie and Rosalie. Renee. I just stood at the foot of the bed, looking at my mother. What had happened? How had it happened? Why didn’t I know more? Would she be all right? I was so frightened. I prayed all day – all night – whispering to myself, ‘Please let her be all
right – please.’ I stood vigil with Lee in that damn hospital for forty-eight hours. The bad lighting – whispering corridors – uniforms – waiting. She was going to be all right. She’d had a massive coronary, the kind Eisenhower was to have. Six weeks in the hospital, a couple more at home. She was a good patient. She wanted reasons for what had happened to her, to give me clues to prevent it ever happening to me. She’d unpacked an enormous barrel of china the day before – ‘Take a lesson from me, Betty – never do that – never lift anything.’ She was always after me to stop smoking – ‘If I can stop, anyone can.’ I stayed for two weeks until she was well out of the woods, but she wanted me to get back to the children. ‘You can’t leave them for too long – Steve will be coming home from camp – Leslie’s alone.’ Also I was going to work again – at last. Not a marvelous picture – a remake, sentimental – but Negulesco would direct and we loved working together. It was to start at the end of September.
The Gift of Love
.

Once I was home, Frank and I became a steady pair. We flew to Las Vegas for
The Joker Is Wild
opening – he took me to the
Pal Joey
opening in town – at all his small dinner parties I was the hostess. People were watching with interest. It seemed to everyone – to his friends, to mine – that we were crazy about each other, that we were a great pair; that it wouldn’t last; that Frank would never be able to remain constantly devoted, monogamous – yet that maybe with me, he
would
. My friends were worried I’d be hurt – he wasn’t good enough, couldn’t be counted on for a lifetime. But just then it was all going smoothly. I sat in on some of his recording dates – I was the center of his life at the moment. At least I thought I was – I felt I was. It seemed perfect, no way for it not to work. And I was happy. Surface happy.