By Myself and Then Some (54 page)

My arms were around Steve and Leslie. I kept looking at them from time to time to make sure they were all right. I glanced at Mother, in whose face was written the greatest pain I’d ever seen. Then K.C. rose again and asked us all to stand and recite the Twenty-third Psalm. Then to kneel for the final prayer. The music was by Bach and Debussy – one of Bogie’s favorite composers. I brought my children to the kneeling position with me. They had behaved beautifully. Had they understood any of it? At least they could see how many people cared about their father. And I hoped it was reassuring to see Niven, Swifty, Mike, Nunnally ushering friends down the aisles. When they were older, they might read John’s words and understand better. And then I thought: ‘At this moment the cremation is happening.’

It was over. We rose and headed for the side door. We got into the car and headed home.

It seemed that everyone in the church had come to the house. Mike Romanoff had sent cassoulet, salads, cheese, booze, and waiters by the carload for Bogie. It was like a party – almost. Everyone came to me first, drink in hand, then talked among themselves. Marlene Dietrich kissed me and gave me sympathy. I remember Dr Jones sitting at the table with Brandsma and Flynn, drawing on a piece of paper, going over the surgery again to see how it had been done, searching for more knowledge, assuring himself that the way he had done it had been the only way. Danny Kaye came up to me and said, ‘You have no idea where you are.’ I suppose he was right, but I kept moving through it all as though I knew what I was doing. And Spencer was there, and Kate, and the Jaffes, the Johnsons, the Marees, Jimmy Van Heusen, the Gershwins, the Pecks, the Dick Powells, Bogie’s captain Pete, the Wylers, the Goldwyns, Bill Blair (representing Adlai), Bogie’s hairdresser, make-up men, nurses, studio heads, neighbors. Betty and Adolph, after the wire and the phone call, just arrived the day before the service – they had to be with me – what true friends! The house was alive with voices, laughter, plates of food, drink. I moved from one to another like a hostess. Odd stories of Bogie and moments remembered, outrageous, funny, infuriating, brave, all that Bogie was. He’d left his mark, all right. Steve and Leslie were running in and out. As long as there were people, as long as there was noise, we could manage. In the midst of it all, Frank called from New York – he had not been able to come – to ask how I was, the children – he’d call later to find out what time we’d be leaving for Palm Springs.

The high-comedy part of the day came from the American Floral Association. The papers had printed my request that there be no flowers – instead, contributions should be sent to the American Cancer Society in Bogie’s name. Whereupon the floral group got carried away and sent me a telegram. As I opened what I thought was another condolence wire, my mouth dropped open: ‘Do we say don’t go to see Lauren Bacall movies?’ That gave me and all who saw it the one true laugh of the day.

It was so good to see those rooms full of people again – to hear laughter. And it was all about Bogie, all for him. He wouldn’t have believed so many held him in such high regard. He wouldn’t have
believed the more than a thousand telegrams from all over the world; from old friends like Jack Buchanan, Noel, Moss Hart, George Kaufman – new ones like the Oliviers, Cookes, Schlesingers – from people who had met him once – or never. From children of friends, like Bill Hayward from Lawrenceville, where he was in school. From many like Max Gordon, Irving Berlin, Howard Lindsay, who’d known him when he started in the theatre; tennis champions Pancho Segura and Tony Trabert; Aly Khan; Governor Knight of California, who’d met him once or twice; Cole Porter, Jerome Robbins, Averell Harriman. It was staggering.

I took all personal letters with me to Palm Springs to read when I had time. I would write a personal note to everyone who had sent a wire or letter. And all the clippings would have to be sorted out for the scrapbooks. I was very organized – I managed better when there was a lot to do.

Buddy and Carolyn Morris lived in Palm Springs and Steve and Leslie would have their Steve and Chris to play with. The Nivens were coming down for a weekend with Cary Grant. So we wouldn’t be too dismally alone. Sun and, hopefully, sleep would help us all. The children loved the desert – we went riding, swimming – but I started having nightmares, waking up in the middle of the night hearing Bogie talking to me – seeing his emaciated body upstairs, calling to me over the balcony – seeing him dead in our bed. One night, in a cold sweat, tears covering my face, hearing a thud and looking downstairs to see that misshapen white sack in the entry hall. The doctors had given me pills to help me sleep – not true barbiturates, Miltown at first, I think – but I stayed depressed. I couldn’t get used to not seeing Bogie, not talking to him. I started to read the letters I had brought. Sterling Hayden – ‘There are those who say our maker has things all worked out for us and whatever happens is for the best – there are times when I can’t agree and this is one of them.’ Fred Astaire (whose wife had died of cancer not long before Bogie) – ‘I know so very well what you’re going through.’ Sailing companions Ken Carey, Bob Dorris, Bob Marlott – remembering the joy on the
Santana
, their admiration and respect for Bogie the sailor, the side of him they were privy to – his love of the sea – how much he had given – how they wished they could do more. John Cromwell – telling me tales of early theatre days shared. A man from
Photoplay
in New York quoting Louis Bromfield when he told
Louis he was leaving Cleveland for Hollywood: ‘The only good thing I can say about Hollywood is Bogart lives there.’ Ed Murrow – ‘There are times when people who work with words know that they are futile – this is such a time. Someone once wrote, “There are no pockets in a shroud. The dead hold in their hands only what they have given away.” Your husband gave much.’

Harry Cohn writing that last May he had been apprised of Bogie’s illness and ‘I became determined then and it became an absolute command at Columbia that nothing would be discussed at this studio concerning any change of plans re
The Good Shepherd
. It was to preclude any possibility of a leak to any column or paper. The only thing allowed was a change of date. It was my desire and Columbia’s that Bogie never suspect even the possibility of his not making that picture – and this was the reason I was afraid of making a personal visit to him – I was concerned that a slip of the tongue or facial expression when I saw him might give me away – and to give him any disheartening doubt. It was the least we could do for Humphrey Bogart – would we had been able to do more.’

And there were many more. From John O’Hara, impressing upon me the priority work must take above all else. From Howard Lindsay and Russel Crouse with their memories of Humphrey. From actors who didn’t really know him. From Charlie Blair, dear friend, who had flown Bogie around Italy during the war, and flown Steve to meet us in London – saying how he’d learned from Bogie and because of him dared his record-breaking solo flight over the Pole – Bogie had convinced Charlie that anything was possible. From the president of his fan club for fifteen years. From Herb Shettler, the judge who married us. They all spoke of Bogie’s spirit – his heroic character – his laughter and his wanting to help others. Some of them made me cry – some of them still do. The impact of his death was great. I want whoever reads these words to have a sense of Bogie – what he was, the personal mark he left on many varied lives. I clung to the letters – they kept him close to me.

On the surface the children were enjoying themselves – I was amazed at what resilient creatures they were. One day Leslie said to my Mother while I was out riding with Steve: ‘Why did God take my daddy away?’ Mother was nonplussed – could only think to say, ‘God needed him.’ Whereupon Leslie replied, ‘Did He think it was more
important for Him to have him than his children?’ Mother couldn’t answer that – indeed, who could? So in that four-year-old head, all kinds of questions were being asked.

One night while the Nivens and I were having dinner at Cary and Betsy Grant’s house, David took me outside. He had lost his young first wife many years before and knew grief. He put his arm around my shoulder and said, ‘There is no panacea for this kind of loss. Just know that every day it gets the tiniest bit better – suddenly one day you can put it in a different perspective. You’ll never forget Bogie – nor would you want to. You’ll just one day be able to put him in a different place in your life.’ I never forgot what David said. Of course it had been deeply ingrained in me by Bogie not to mourn – that it did no good for the dead and was just self-indulgent. That was all well and good to say – not so simple to practice. But it almost forced me to keep things inside – and by keeping them inside, lengthened the time for me before I was able to put them in perspective.

The two weeks came to a close. I packed up the children and myself, and with Mother and Lee we headed back to reality. Lee would go back to New York and Mother would follow soon – I told her I’d have to learn to deal with life as it would be from now on. The children would be in school, I had endless letters to write, and I would have to think about work. I doubt that many producers thought of me as an actress at that point, I had been so much Bogie’s wife that last year – except for
Designing Woman
, I had not been near a studio. And no one seemed to be breaking down the door for my services. I hated that casual sloughing off of me – or of anyone, for that matter.

I had decided the children and I would have dinner together in the dining room from now on. At least routine could be understood. One night just before Valentine’s Day, while at the table, Stephen said, ‘I know, Mommy, I know how we can surprise Daddy – we can all shoot ourselves and be with Daddy on Valentine’s Day.’ I was shocked and unnerved. What had been going on in that young mind? I tried to stay close to Steve – it seemed to me that he felt the loss very deeply, but who really can say who feels what and at what age? I’m sure I was neglectful of Leslie in my over-concern about Steve, and that I made many mistakes, but I could only do what I could do with the arrival of each day. All our nerves were frayed and would be for months to come – for years. All of our lives had been indelibly scarred. Whenever Steve
was angry with me, more often than not it was ‘I wish Daddy were here instead of you.’ I asked Dr Spivek about it – the other doctors – they all said it was perfectly natural, that Steve was full of resentment because his father had left him, that he probably felt he had done something wrong to make his father want to leave, that his father hadn’t loved him. So I tried to make up by loving him too much. As long as Mother could stay, I went back to leaning on her – I felt less alone in the house. When I had to see people regarding Bogie’s will – talk to anyone who came – answer letters – she more than took up the slack. And of course she was wonderful with the children.

I didn’t have a clue what I was doing. I got up in the morning, talked on the telephone, ate meals, saw friends at home, played with the children – did what had to be done. I was breathing, but there was no life in me. I couldn’t think of the future, I could only think of the man I had lost – the man who’d given me everything, taught me about people and living, with whom I had found my way of life. How could I continue alone? How would I fill the days – to what end? He had taken so much with him.

A letter from Moss Hart refused to start with the usual words of sympathy:

I read and reread that letter endlessly. Of course I had been lucky – I had always known that – but Bogie hadn’t been, to die so young, and
in such a way, leaving Steve and Leslie without the privilege of knowing him. The days continued, but with no point of view. The two small children became my focus – if I hadn’t had them to help me keep some semblance of sanity, God knows what I would have done. As it was, I did little right. I could do for Bogie, but it would be many years before I could do for myself. And the nightmares continued.

I knew I would not be able to keep the
Santana –
it was pure Bogie anyway and should be used and sailed by a man who loved it as Bogie had. I would have to go down there, though, to collect Bogie’s belongings. So I arranged it for a Sunday and took Steve and Leslie with me. It was not a day for sailing, but I wanted to go out anyway, so we started up the engine and we motored around the bay. It would be my last trip on board. So strange to be there without Bogie. As we moved around the bay on the cold, gray day, past familiar yachts of friends, pictures of sunnier, happier days flashed before me. When we got back to the dock and I’d sorted everything, I took a last look below – another on deck – another walking up the gangway to the car. It wasn’t only the
Santana
I was saying goodbye to, it was goodbye to a kind of life – a facet of Bogie I’d shared with him, and a way of life I’d never know again. It was the last time I saw that sailor’s dream, the fifty-five-foot yawl
Santana
.