By Myself and Then Some (85 page)

I was in his and his wife Mary’s country home one weekend. Peter appeared in outdoor gear – cap, gloves, portable Sony with accompanying ear aides, walking shoes, etc. In all the years and all the weekends I’d spent in that house, I’d never seen Peter partake of anything athletic except tennis, which he loved. Upon my inquiry, ‘What’s going on?’, he said his doctor had told him he had to walk an hour each day. He seemed slightly annoyed that this walk would take him away from his reading and phone calls – interrupt our regular lunch at Estins in Amagansett. He was, however, resigned, saying, ‘I don’t want to – but I have to. I’m fine walking downhill, it’s uphill that’s the toughie.’ And that was that. I asked no more questions. He volunteered no more information, although the following morning reading the Sunday papers – me on the couch – Peter in his usual chair in this cozy, relaxed, ideal country living room – I suddenly became aware he was on the phone to his doctor. Most unusual. But I said nothing. Only the next morning, as I was leaving to return to New York, I said my goodbyes to Mary and on turning to Peter, I felt an air of vulnerability around him that led me to stroke his face and tell him, ‘Take care of your sweet self.’ ‘I will,’ and I left. I will never forget that picture of us standing by the screen door. And it is only now that I realize that was the last time I saw him.

I spoke to him a few times when he was in the hospital. Our final exchanges were: Peter, ‘I think I’ve turned the corner.’ Me, ‘Great! Then I can come see you.’ Peter, ‘Yes, and thanks for calling. It means a lot to me.’ So from having slight breathing problems – nothing serious – it turned out to be life threatening. In a month’s time the breathing became more and more acute and the next thing I knew, he was gone. Gone? Not Peter. Not possible. So fast. So abrupt. So unfair.

I see him everywhere. I miss him. I miss the gleam in his eye – where can we find the laughter – the wit – the intelligence. Peter was so intelligent as to frighten me at times, but beneath his bluster he was super-sensitive, caring, insecure, politically wise, involved in all things environmental and anything favoring protecting birds, animals, endangered species, the world. So now he rests in a corner of the town of Amagansett that he loved, next to his friend Alan Pakula. I raise my glass – I have no toast – only to say, ‘You were valuable. You made a
difference.’ And, as far as I’m concerned, ‘You’re still here, now and always.’

And so the epidemic of 2003 began and continued.

Less than two months later, my beloved friend Gregory Peck died. He was everything that Atticus Finch was and more. More because he was younger and living and working in a very visible profession, among actors who not only did not think as he did, but did not give voice as he did, and among some studio heads who preferred that he keep his beliefs to himself. There is not really a single word to describe Greg – not one word that might encompass all of him. Of course, our friendship began in 1956 when we made
Designing Woman
, one of my all-time favorite movies. It was the year of Bogie’s surgery and subsequent fight against cancer. It was one of the worst years of my life. The movie was a romantic comedy, wonderful script and therapeutic for me. I was forced to keep my spirits up and light during daytime shooting of the movie. Greg would ask how Bogie was doing, I would tell him, but there was no dwelling on the subject. Greg was too much of a gent to pry and I was too much in denial to want to talk about it – trying to focus on the movie.
Designing Woman
and Greg were a blessing. They saved my sanity.

Greg and I worked wonderfully together – always in sync. It’s such a pleasure to find yourself with an actor who is there all the time – no star stuff – just caring about the scene, looking for ways to make it better – that’s the sum of acting, what makes it so rewarding as to make up for the lesser times. Working together, NOT competing. From
Designing Woman
on, our friendship grew and grew naturally with him and his great wife, Veronique. No matter where we were, always a postcard, always kept in touch. When I was on Broadway, they’d come to New York. Never missed. And every time I received any recognition, he’d be there to present me with an award or introduce me live or on television. Never a request made by me, mind you, always by others. I would never have put him on a spot where he might feel backed against a wall. When I received the Kennedy Center Honor, Greg was unable to attend – the only major one he missed. He sent me a fax (one of many over the years and always unexpected) that said:

He recited a prayer once – Irish, I think – that I loved. I asked him for a copy and of course received it immediately. It goes like this:

I wish I knew where this originated, but I don’t. Anyway, it doesn’t matter – it came from Gregory Peck and that’s good enough for me. That and the fax were two small samples of his wit. He had it in abundance and he shared it. For any one man to have all these gifts seems impossible, but with simplicity, humility, integrity, loyalty, honor, heart and soul, Greg had it all. He defied the gods, the naysayers, those who demeaned actors. You know, when a friend dies there is a natural tendency to sing his praises and perhaps endow him with more superlative qualities than he might have had. That is definitely not the case with Greg. On the contrary, there is no way to say enough. He was no saint, but he was a man of extraordinary gifts. Of course, he was tall, dark and handsome, but actually more than that – he was dazzling. With a brain – not afraid to show affection – and guess what? He had humor, he had wit, he had warmth. He may not have known it, but I needed his friendship. As an actress who has not been showered with attention in my movie career, knowing that Greg was glad to see me gave me more confidence than I would otherwise have had. When I knew I was going to see him and Veronique, my spirits lifted. The luck, the luck I have had to have a man like Greg Peck as a pal – a man I would trust under any circumstance. I was always and forever grateful to him and for him. And I hope his goodness has rubbed off on me and will make me better in all ways.

Thinking back to
Designing Woman
, it was the start of what was to
become a friendship of almost fifty years. We never lost track of one another. Even through my rocky eight years with Jason. If we communicated less at times it was due to working on different coasts, often in different countries, and to living on different sides of the U.S. It seems that I always felt Greg and Veronique and I had unflagging affection for one another. It really didn’t matter where or when, with Greg once it was fully and firmly established, it would not, could not change. We won awards together, solid gold Rudolph Valentino awards, recognizing our contributions to movies. We remained sort of a team.

Then one day came the offer to play opposite Greg in
The Portrait
for Ted Turner’s cable channel, me playing the wife of this magical professor with Greg’s lovely daughter Cecilia playing our daughter in the piece. In the story, Greg and I were close as pages in a book, which led to the daughter feeling left out. So there we were in North Carolina, Veronique, Greg, Cecilia and me, living and behaving like one big, happy family – Cecilia calling me ‘Mother’ – Veronique and I going marketing together – all this proof positive that we loved each other. I never for a moment felt like an outsider. I was always welcomed with open arms into the tightly knit Peck family. Veronique made even locations feel like home. Though Greg was ten years my senior, we seemed, and we were, totally in tune with one another. We always had fun working together. On screen, we were a pair – the scenes and the action flowed. We were comfortable together, I felt safe with him.

There was an occasion during
The Portrait
, I think it was either Greg’s birthday or Veronique’s or their anniversary – there, I’ve covered all bases – anyway, it was a celebration and Veronique had arranged, in her incredibly thoughtful and thorough way, to have her great cook Carmen make a great Mexican dinner. And how she did all this I’ll never know, but it was cooked, packed and shipped to North Carolina. A feast, one of my favorite cuisines. There was great wine, and simple and loving toasts. It was a family celebration and I was included. Perfect Peck. We continued to meet through all those years past and to the end of his life. Aside from seeing my children, no trip to California was complete without at least one dinner at the Pecks’. A highlight for me.

I give lectures from time to time and the venues have altered through the years. I always like to change the talks a bit depending on the audience and the location. Greg had started to do his ‘Evenings with Gregory Peck’ so I asked him what his format was. He gave me a rough
idea and asked if I’d like to see one of his. Yes please, Greg. I would love to. On my return home, there it was, a video of Greg’s evening. It was filled with anecdotes – Irish stories – his movie life – all warmth and laughter. What struck me particularly was the way he answered one question. Someone asked him how he would like to be remembered. His response, after a pause, was that mostly he wanted to be remembered as a good husband, a good father and a good grandfather. Extraordinary – pure Peck!

He of course was all those things but it clearly demonstrated how family oriented he was, how much he valued his wife, his children and grandchildren, his home, how much pride he took in all of it. And I think of what I have missed. Having lived alone for so many, many years, I never had a complete family life. My children and grandchildren are my family but we don’t live in the same cities so we don’t spend that much time together. And I work so much of the time that the work itself is temporary family for me. I love and adore my children and grandchildren but of course one learns very quickly that they have different interests and priorities, so we must do what we can when we can.

L
ess than two weeks after
Greg’s death, George Axelrod, another friend of fifty years, died. Of course, it was his play,
Goodbye Charlie
, that brought me back to Broadway and the beginning of making my childhood dream come true. He was a classy man of original ideas and great intelligence. ‘I’m in the hit business, baby,’ he would say to me. And he had been – until
Goodbye Charlie
which unhappily did not receive favorable reviews. I did – the play didn’t – though it ran to full houses for three months. George could not take the rejection. He felt he was no longer the whiz kid. So when Hollywood beckoned, he left New York and settled in Los Angeles. He worked with Billy Wilder, Josh Logan, and John Frankenheimer.
Seven Year Itch
, one of his biggest hit plays, was transferred to the big screen to be followed by many more. He was a lovely man, vulnerable followed by hypersensitive. After
The Manchurian Candidate
, a wildly successful – and finally cult – classic, which he wrote brilliantly, George continued to make contributions to the motion pictures, well received but not compared to
Manchurian
. He did not feel appreciated, as those of us have felt the same for years, many years. It is the way of the motion picture mind. You start off being the flavor
of the month, dwindling down to not being thought of, certainly unappreciated. If you’re over twenty-five years old and not bringing in the big bucks, you are ignored. Not a pretty picture, but an accurate one. It happened to George as it has happened to me and countless others.

Anyway, when he and Joan moved to London they were welcomed with open arms. His talent was respected. He was. Life was good for many years there. Finally, however, what happens in many countries is you feel more like a foreigner, less like you belong, and work is scarce. George was a writer, a good one. He needed to write. So as Joan had a magic touch when it came to living, back to California they went and finally settled happily there. And there they stayed until the end. George had everything to do with my reason to move back to America. And over a period of fifty years, we remained super friends. So once again a piece of my life had been chipped away. Getting older, though necessary, leaves a great deal to be desired.

Katharine Hepburn died eight days later – the final blow of 2003. It was not unexpected – she was ninety-six years old and the quality of her life had not been what she would have wished. But she was there. She was there and I could not conceive of there being a time without her. She was Miss Hepburn – Aunt Kat – Katie – Kate – Kathy (to Spencer Tracy). She was all of those depending upon your relationship. And she was also Katharine. With an ‘A’.

She was loyal – demanding – pure and purely demanding – open – reserved – formally informal – proud – intimidating – exasperating – funny – touching. She was a worker – a riser above everything – passionate in her likes and dislikes – saying what she thought but keeping herself to herself – loving – sentimental – a lover of beauty – of nature. She was there for all who needed her – really needed her and were in need. She was especially, wonderfully, uniquely, one of a kind. For all she was – has been – has given on all levels – publicly or privately – she enhanced this life.

There was more public attention paid her than anyone in memory. Tribute upon tribute on television, newspapers, magazines devoting whole issues to her. It continued for months after her passing. As a woman, she had made a powerful impact on all who didn’t know her. She was independent. She chose her way of life – hurting no one – and never vying for approval. She leaves me with so many pictures of her in so many different places at so many different times. She unknowingly
made me aware of ways to live and to behave that were new to me. So although there is a large, empty space in my life without her, there is all that past to remember. She could do so many things. She applied herself. How many surprising, great meals that she cooked when I had evenings with her and Spence.