By Myself and Then Some (66 page)

The same change opened my eyes at about six the following morning. I tiptoed into Sam’s room to see if he was awake so I could hug him. He was sitting up with his radio on his lap, his face lighting up at the sight of his mama. He said, ‘Mommy, Kennedy’s been shot.’ I couldn’t imagine what had made him think about John Kennedy that particular morning. I said, ‘I know, darling, but that was a long time ago.’ ‘No, Mommy,’ he insisted, ‘Senator Kennedy’s been shot.’ I turned his radio up, totally disbelieving – heard something about Bobby’s shooting – ran wildly through the house, waking Leslie, Nanny – turning on the television in my room, where we all gathered. Then the whole hideous story unfolded.

We sat huddled around that set the entire day. Jason called from
Spain, unbelieving, saying we had to get out of the United States, get the children into sanity. People everywhere who had been sure what Americans stood for were questioning everything now. As I looked at Sam, aged six – my beautiful, blue-eyed, yellow-haired boy – I realized that he had spent his entire life in awareness of assassination: of John Kennedy, then Martin Luther King, now Bobby; that there had been days of mourning, of funeral corteges on television, of wives left husbandless and children fatherless. Even at six he must have wondered if that was the way life was in our United States. If I as an adult felt insecure, anxious, nervous about the future, how must he have felt? Children are so instinctive, and Sam was hypersensitive to anything emotional. How could I tell him what a great country ours was? How lucky he was to be an American? How could any American feel lucky or proud during those years?

Dick Cavett called to ask if I would participate in his show that night. There would be four or five people talking about Bobby. I said, ‘Now? It’s so soon.’ But he was right. Talk now, try to figure it out, say how you feel while the wound is open, the pain strongest. I did it – vented my anger, and my terrible sense of personal loss. The funeral was to be at St Patrick’s Cathedral. I received a telegram asking me to go, and then continue on the train to Washington. Art and Anne Buchwald and I arranged to go to St Patrick’s together. I would spend the night with them in Washington.

It seemed strange that everyone in that crowded cathedral had an emotional identification with Bobby. It wasn’t a case of huddling together. It was standing shoulder to shoulder – completely open, completely naked emotionally. Ted Kennedy’s eulogy was the most moving, most devastating, I had ever heard. When his voice broke, it became apparent that he might have lost more than anyone, that his burden was the greatest and he would be the most alone. And then in the silence as we all stood came the clear, pure sound of Andy Williams singing ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’ Men and women sobbed. And then the final sight of Ethel and her children and the whole Kennedy family walking up the aisle. He pallbearers who had gone through Jack’s experience, now carrying Bobby. I couldn’t believe the Kennedy family’s bravery and courage, and couldn’t help marveling at their religious belief. And I thought of Rose Kennedy, who if she had borne only four children would now have none.

The train ride to Washington was what I imagine Lincoln’s must have been like. All along the way, there were people watching, holding signs, paying tribute to the young man who had represented hope.

Ethel walked through the train, stopping to say a few words to everyone, to thank us for coming. What a person – what capacity – to be aware of anything but her own grief. The immediate family rode in the last car with Bobby most of the time. At one point Eunice and Jean came out. I talked to them, not about Bobby, just talked to these two stricken women who were my friends. Eunice was tense, but could talk – I was blinded with admiration. As Eunice was closest to Jack, Pat was to Bobby and Jean to Teddy. I was proud to know them, proud to have shared a moment of their brother’s life. I remember Arthur Schlesinger saying to me, ‘We have lost the only three people in public life we cared about.’ And I knew he was right, just as I knew that I would never feel the same emotion again for anyone in politics.

In Washington the casket and the family were greeted by an honor guard as we rushed to Arlington for the candlelight burial. I saw that box being lifted into the hearse, and I could not believe that that young, virile body was inside.

The procession at Arlington was extraodinary. The world seemed to be there. We each held a lighted candle, and the sight of the flames winding down and around the pathways was moving beyond description. Art and Annie and I were able to stand near the family. All were numb, still unbelieving. As the ceremony came to a close, I noticed Ted Kennedy turn from where he had been standing and stop at John Kennedy’s grave. From one brother’s grave to another. That said more than a thousand words. Ted’s life was there on that knoll in Arlington. And now even more burdens would be his.

At Hickory Hill, fifty or more friends gathered for a drink and a snack. The long line of children, each looking after the other down to the smallest – the two youngest happily unaware. The strength and courage of Ethel were remarkable – I stood in awe of them – and envied her faith. Standing on that lawn on that warm June evening, I reviewed the last time I had been in her house, when Bobby had taken me on a tour from pool house to playroom, through all the kids’ bedrooms. On seeing the infant Douglas, I said, ‘What a time he’s been born to,’ and Bobby said ironically, ‘What a world!’ Everyone had personal thoughts and memories; we all exchanged stories, we all felt
lost. Our hero had been taken away from us. A President still had to be elected, but who could have a taste for it now?

After Bobby I felt detached from life, purposeless. I didn’t seem to have anywhere to go, everything seemed pointless. Nothing was happening in my career – typical after a hit show. The film rights to
Cactus Flower
had been bought for Mike Frankovich to produce, with Walter Matthau starring, Gene Saks directing. Freddie Fields, my movie agent, was convinced I could get my Broadway part, though in Hollywood it doesn’t necessarily or even usually follow that the creator of a role onstage carries it onto the screen. Another example of Hollywood’s consummate creative thinking. How could I be right for it if I had created it? Asses!

I had to spend much of the summer in Paris for the fashion special, which finally would be filmed. Jason would return to the U.S. and go to Malibu, where we would meet in August. Steve was staying in Philadelphia. He’d done badly in his first year at the University of Pennsylvania, though not so badly as to have dropped out. I had been so preoccupied with my marriage, with travel, with being out of work, with Leslie and Sam, that I hadn’t realized Steve was in trouble. Also, he and I had not been getting along well. I put it down to his wanting independence, plus the normal resentment a son feels for his mother until he finds his own female with whom to identify. It was a phase that would pass. I’d spoken to him on the phone and then hadn’t heard from him for a while, so I wasn’t sure where he was. It never occurred to me he was in any trouble. I thought he was just making his independent statement. My blessed mother, while I was in Europe, made it her business to find him – she was so much smarter than I. She called him, persuaded him to meet her on a streetcorner in Philadelphia, and convinced him to let me know where he was, to never lose touch. She reported all this to me, at the same time chastising me: ‘How could you let any time go by, not knowing where he was living? He has to know that you care what happens to him!’ She was right, of course. With her old-fashioned thinking about relationships of all kinds, she was amazingly adaptable and sensitive to the problems of the Sixties. She came through when it mattered most to Steve and to me. She always came through.

The television special on fashion in Paris was great fun. Leslie appeared in some of the scenes. She had grown into a beautiful
sixteen-year-old girl – could have been a model in a minute if she’d been so inclined. Her Lycée years served her well in Paris. She was incredibly good with Sam, he was and is mad about her, and she and I were on the threshold of a good relationship. Sam spent all his time at the Shrivers’, the Jardin d’Acclimatation in the Bois – amusement park – cum zoo – cum everything. I thrived in the Paris atmosphere, made new friends with St Laurent, Marc Bohan, Ungaro, and Cardin. My French improved and I was in the middle of all those collections! I had a new life during those eight weeks and made the most of it. I needed it badly – it kept the horror of the assassination far away, and made it unnecessary to face the problems of my personal life immediately.

The children and I arrived in California in mid-August, ready for a month of beach time. Jason was there. We had been growing further apart – certainly the drinking had been a large part of it, but beyond that it seemed we had less and less to share, with the great exception of Sam, who unequivocally adored his father and vice versa.

Freddie Fields had arranged a meeting between me and Mike Frankovich at Mike’s office at the Columbia studio; Freddie was certain I would be cast in
Cactus Flower
. I wasn’t certain at all. During our meeting Mike told me he wanted me, but that there seemed to be some question in the minds of Saks and Matthau. I couldn’t conceive of that being true – Walter being a product of the stage, Gene too. We were all friends, though that had no bearing on anything. I felt Gene would go along with the majority wish, and Walter would get what he wanted. A few nights later, at dinner at Kirk and Ann Douglas’s, Freddie stood up and announced to all that I’d been cast in the film. Everyone applauded, pleased for me. I asked Freddie if he was sure. Sure he was sure. I was happy – maybe this would be the turning point for me, back in a good film after so long. I’d resented having to play the Hollywood game, selling myself for a part that ‘belonged’ to me, or at least that I had created. It was humiliating, but I did it – and then it wasn’t set at all. Ingrid Bergman had the part. I couldn’t believe it – couldn’t believe that I wasn’t to play my own creation, couldn’t believe Freddie had made that announcement. I felt ridiculous, unimportant, so unappreciated in that town, by everyone – producers and agents alike. In California my New York success meant less than nothing – they didn’t think beyond the
Hollywood Reporter
and who was the latest hit. If you had ability, you could hang in for a few years; if not, tough luck,
there’d be someone else coming along. It was up to me to force myself, with no help from the outside, to believe in me – unreservedly. To keep my standards high – and my sense of humor flashing.

Through all of this my marriage was falling apart. I was upset, angry, disgusted – but I knew what I wanted out of life by then, so I was not destroyed. There was no point in threats anymore. As Jason and I had discussed often in the past, one day he would take off and that would end it. He did – he disappeared for two days. Life is curious. I was looking for an envelope or a stamp one day while he was gone, went into a desk drawer, and there was a letter from his accountant, referring to money he had loaned a girl. I lifted that piece of paper and there, staring up at me, was a romantic letter to him from this very same girl. So the one thing I had never considered seriously had taken place. But that was it, and I was sure I could handle it with aplomb on his return. I knew the marriage was over – it had been over for quite some time – and this new fact was something I had no intention of living with. There is nothing deader than a terminal marriage. No reason to keep it going.

When he returned on a bright sunny morning, I said nothing. He took a shower and when he emerged I asked him how this girl was, having read her name in the letter. He was stunned – the last thing he expected. I said, ‘There is really no point, Jason, in going on. It’s over, so let’s end it. Now, with dignity and like grown-ups.’ I was actually very matter-of-fact, decisive, no histrionics. Jason recognized the finality and accepted it. He said he was sorry, what should we do? As he was returning to New York in three days to rehearse Joseph Heller’s play,
We Bombed in New Haven
, it should not be too difficult. I insisted on one thing – that he must be the one to tell the children he was leaving and not coming back. Not Sam yet, Sam wasn’t yet seven. I wanted Jason to go back to New York and clear his things out of the apartment so that trauma wouldn’t have to be dealt with once we were home. I wanted it done cleanly and clearly – the best way for Sam. We would stay on in California for another two weeks, so it should be easy. But endings are never easy.

Those three days were mournful. We got through the days all right – the ocean helped – but the nights were a mess. Jason was very low. He told Leslie one afternoon – embarrassed, very sweet. Leslie wasn’t deeply upset – she had always liked Jason, but had never depended on him. He and I would sit in the living room after dinner just looking at each other. He’d take my hand or I’d take his. I felt the need to bolster him somehow, to give him some hope for his future. We were both sad – an investment of eight years is a large one. I told him not to meet Sam and me at the airport, that it would be easier for Sam to walk into the apartment with no trace of Jason there. Then I could tell him, and after that Jason could. We would both make it clear to Sam that it was no one’s fault and had absolutely nothing to do with our love for him. It would be hard – and it proved to be – but it had to be done. I wasn’t sure of too much in my life at that point, but I was sure of that.