By Myself and Then Some (51 page)

He was still presiding over the cocktail hour. He’d started drinking martinis again which I made with dry sherry – he liked that better. Probably he could taste them more than Scotch. His lungs must have been filling up, because he spat a lot. Instead of having to ask for a tissue constantly, it was easier for him to have a receptacle. The nurses provided a stainless-steel one, hideously kidney-shaped and hideously clinical-looking. It would sit on the table next to him when he was downstairs and beside the bed when he was up. A couple of people were having drinks – I don’t remember who, but they must have been good friends. I was sitting on the sofa opposite Bogie, having just handed him his drink. As I looked across at him – conversation was proceeding – he just sat there, sipping his martini, interjecting an occasional word, using the steel spittoon. He looked so helpless, so vulnerable, so uncomplaining, that I had to walk over and put my arms around him. I didn’t say anything – it was something I had to do. His
reaction was immediate. Almost brushing me away, he said, ‘Don’t do that, Baby – there’s nothing I can do about it.’ That was as close as he ever came to saying anything pointed about his illness.

He was a complete shut-in – had been since St John’s. He’d even said that he was. Once when he was sitting downstairs, Steve and Leslie ran into the room wanting to watch TV. As Leslie ran by, he reached out and stopped her – sat her next to him and kissed her fingers and held her hand in one of the most gentle, loving, and moving gestures I have ever seen …

We got through Christmas – I don’t remember how, but we did. I gave Bogie a portable radio, new pajamas, a smoking jacket – I don’t know what. There was nothing festive about the day. Steve and Leslie opened their many presents and loved that, as any child would. Bogie loved the pictures Engstead had taken – we used one for our Christmas card – and he became fifty-seven years old. By next year all would be well and we’d be having a party once again. New Year’s Eve we had champagne and caviar and drank toasts to each other in the bedroom with Mother and Lee.

Huston was back in California and came every day, regaling Bogie with stories of the filming of
Moby Dick
. Everyone came in ten-minute shifts – I told them that, no matter what Bogie said, ten minutes was all he could take at a time. There were exceptions – Spence and Katie (who were always there when no one else was anyway), Huston, Morgan, Nunnally, Swifty, Niv, Romanoff – the closest.

Clifton Webb, an old friend of Bogie’s and close to both of us from the beginning of our marriage, had been in Italy making a film. He returned around the end of December and called immediately – wanted to know all about Bogie – had been told he was very ill again and wanted to see him. He became very emotional, kept saying, ‘Oh, poor Bogie – I can’t bear it,’ got weepy on the phone. I told him he could not come unless he could hold himself together, that seeing Bogie after so many months would be a terrible shock to him, but Bogie was very alert and would notice the slightest suggestion of emotion. Clifton shouldn’t come alone, I thought – better with a friend. He finally came with George Cukor, who had been before. I was very apprehensive and stayed with Clifton and George as Bogie was wheeled into the room. Clifton got through it somehow, but as Bogie was being wheeled out of the room, Clifton totally collapsed – started
to cry, moan. I was trying to keep him quiet so Bogie wouldn’t hear him. One had not only one’s own emotions to contend with, but also those of friends who couldn’t deal with the facts. Clifton was a special friend – and cried easily – so there was no point in being angry with him. That afternoon, however, he was definitely more of a problem than Bogie ever was.

One day Sam Goldwyn and Willie Wyler came for drinks. By then Bogie was no longer being transferred to the big chair, he just stayed in the wheelchair. The nurse stayed downstairs in case he needed anything. There was general talk. Bogie suddenly beckoned for the nurse – pulled up one pajama leg, exposing his pathetic frail limb – he needed a shot. No fuss. Goldwyn was stunned to see the thinness of that leg. Bogie didn’t see his face – Goldwyn slowly turned away – the conversation was somehow kept going till the shot was administered. That was the only time Bogie ever did anything like that in anyone else’s presence. He apologized briefly, but said he’d needed it for the pain – he was okay now. No dramatics. I marvel at him every time I think of his conduct. He suffered such humiliation from his disease – his poor body had been driven further by his will to live than it was ever meant to go, but still he would not give up. The only thing different I noticed those last few weeks was that he wanted me with him all the time. If I was downstairs visiting a friend, talking with a doctor, whatever – the phone buzzer would ring: ‘Can you come up for a while, Baby?’

One morning Jack Warner called and wanted to know if it would be all right to visit Bogie. I was very much surprised, but I said, ‘Certainly, Jack.’ I gave him a time to come and told Bogie, who was touched that Jack would make the effort – and an effort it was. At the appointed time, the doorbell rang and there stood Jack in Homburg hat. Awkward, nervous, ill at ease. He removed his hat and kept turning it around in his fingers. He said, ‘I won’t stay long – I wanted to see Bogie – I’ve always liked him – admired him. I’ve heard what a time he’s had.’ I took him upstairs, where he stayed with Bogie for about fifteen minutes. I stayed in the room. Bogie had to put him at ease – of course tell him that his first film would be for Columbia. A gentle ribbing – Bogie wouldn’t step too far out of character. And Jack tried to tell some kind of terrible joke. I’m sure he died a thousand deaths during that visit, but he showed up, and that counted for a great deal. He thanked
me for letting him come – he felt good about having done that. And I was grateful to him. Bogie said, ‘Jack’s not a bad guy – he’s just so uncomfortable with everyone. He has to make jokes to prove he’s regular.’ Whatever his reasons, it was one of the better things Jack did.

Louella Parsons asked if she could come. Bogie said sure. She had been a good friend – not a friend friend, but a columnist friend. With the exception of Kilgallen and a couple of other New York items, the press had been respectful of his privacy during his illness. About a week before he died there’d been a rumor in the East that his death was imminent and when the wire services and newspapers called to check, Bogie’s words were, ‘What are the ghouls saying about me now?’ Joe Hyams had come over to check the rumor that he was in a coma – always ready to give Bogie a place to let off steam publicly. He told Joe, ‘You can say that I’m down to my last martini. The only thing I’m fighting is to keep my head above the press.’

Our routine had been the same each day for months. I kissed him good night before I went to sleep in the little nap room next to our bedroom – wakened each morning to kiss him good morning – had my breakfast with him. The doctor came – the nurse was there – Harvey came up every day and always walked over to Bogie and stayed with him for most of the day. The children were in school except during the holidays. My conversations with the doctors were always the same. Bogie was getting weaker – I had noticed that when he sipped his grape juice through a glass hospital straw his hand shook, and when he put the glass down on the table his focus was less good. I’d talk to the nurses about it, to the doctors – they said it was because of the pain-killing drugs they were giving him. Since that day in the Good Samaritan Hospital when he asked them to please stop the suction machine, he had not uttered one complaint. I don’t know how we all got through those days – the routine saved us, I guess. Somewhere in there Steve had his eighth birthday party, not a large one, but he had his best friends and a cake and presents – I ran some sixteen-mm. film for them. The essential thing was to do as many normal things as one possibly could. Steve and Leslie saw Bogie every night – kissed him good night – they knew he was there.

One day when Dr Brandsma came in, Bogie said, ‘You know, I don’t seem to be getting any better. I’m getting worried. Am I getting worse or is it what you expect?’ He gave the doctor his arm.

‘I would say it’s about what we expect.’

Questions like that left me unsure whether he really knew he was dying. If there is anything good to say about cancer – and I don’t really think there is – it is that its victims always seem to feel they have licked it. Yet he never asked direct questions, questions that would require definitive answers.

On Saturday, January 12, Spence and Katie came to visit in the evening. They stayed for about forty minutes – maybe more. It was their usual kind of visit, Bogie really enjoying them – except that he was a little less concentrated, his focus a little less good. If they noticed his shaking hand, they never let on. I walked them downstairs to the door and went back up. Bogie wanted to watch
Anchors Aweigh
with Gene Kelly and Frank on television. We watched it and enjoyed it. Bogie wanted me on the bed with him – next to him. Whenever we were alone in the evening it was always side by side with the television on, there was nothing new about that. Then he said, ‘Why don’t you sleep here tonight, Baby?’ It was the first time that request had been made. ‘Of course I will. I hadn’t because I felt you’d be more comfortable without me.’ Actually, he felt freer about waking up at night without me on the bed – he didn’t like to disturb me! Even at that stage he told the nurse he wanted his wife to stay with him that night. They both looked at me as though I didn’t have to – shouldn’t. But of course I would stay – I
wanted
to stay with him. I could hold his hand. I always loved holding Bogie’s hand even in its frailty. Odd how important holding a hand can be – how reassuring.

That night was a night never to be forgotten of total restlessness – of Bogie picking at his chest in his sleep – of his feeling he had to get up and then not – of constant movement. I was awake most of the night and could see his hands moving over his chest as he slept, as though things were closing in and he wanted to get out. The only thing that became more apparent to me that night was an odor – I had been noticing it as I kissed him. At first I thought it was medicinal – later I realized it was decay. Actually I didn’t realize it – I asked the nurse what it was and she told me. It was a strong odor – almost like a disinfectant turned sour. In the world of sickness one becomes privy to the failure of the body – to so many small things taken for granted, ignored. I reacted not with revulsion but with a caving in of my stomach.

And I was frightened by the mystery of it all. Why did Bogie have to
go through a night like that one? Hadn’t there been enough torture? Did it all have to gather itself together and pounce on him like this?

Sunday morning Dr Brandsma came early. I was dressing to take the children to Sunday School. Before we left, Bogie said, ‘Doc, last night was the worst night of my life – I don’t want to go through that again.’ I took the children, came back upstairs with the morning paper. Bogie was sitting up, very shakily moving the electric razor over his chin. I sat with him, had coffee – he still couldn’t forget the night before. I asked him if he felt better. ‘It’s always better in the daylight.’ Sunday School was short, I had to collect my babies – I said I’d be right back and kissed him as I always did. Newspapers later printed that he said, ‘Goodbye, Kid,’ making it seem overly dramatic and pointed. It was not like that – it was just ‘Goodbye, Kid,’ in a most ordinary way under most extraordinary circumstances. He did say, ‘Hurry back,’ to which I answered, ‘I’ll only be gone long enough to pick them up and come home – ten minutes at the outside.’ I arrived at the church and honked my horn at my offspring, who hugged K.C. goodbye and ran to the car. We buzzed home and on arrival we all went upstairs, they to wash for lunch, me to tell Bogie I was home. He was dozing – the nurse whispered to me that he seemed somewhat comatose. ‘What the hell does that mean?’ ‘We don’t know yet – not for sure. If he is in a semicoma, he may come out of it – if not, he’ll sink into a deep coma.’ I looked at him – he looked as though he were just sleeping and would waken after a while. The house was very still. Mother was there – she was marvelous about everything, kept out of the way, spent most of her time with the children, but sat with me when I needed her. The doctor came back – I let him in, said I’d wait downstairs. A couple of friends called – I told them Bogie was resting, I’d talk to them later. The doctor came down and we walked into the Butternut Room. Bogie definitely seemed to be in a coma. He might come out of it, but the doctor didn’t think so. It was normal after last night. I asked him to explain. After I told him what Bogie’s movements had been through that night – hands picking constantly at his chest – he said, ‘That’s what happens just before one dies. People feel claustrophobic – it seems as though everything is closing in. And everything is. It’s their last fight – the restlessness – the thrashing.’ A fight to be born, I thought – a fight to die.

‘But,’ I said, still grasping at straws, ‘he might still have a chance.’

‘Yes, but I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘He’s fought harder and better than anyone I’ve ever seen. He’s lived longer than we had any right to expect. He should have been gone four months ago. Medically, that is. But his will to live was so strong he fought it off. His will is not enough now.’

‘Oh, God, I can’t believe it.’ I started to shake – no tears, just shaking, hardly able to get my breath. ‘What shall I do about Steve? Would you say something to prepare him?’ Just then I saw Steve and called to him to come in. ‘Come here, darling – sit by Mommy.’ I was in the orange chair – big enough for both of us. ‘Dr Brandsma wants to talk to you for a minute.’ That small boy – that beautiful boy, just eight years old a week before – sat on the edge of the chair, a little hunched over, head tilted back a little, almost as if trying to avoid a blow, and looked at Dr Brandsma.

‘You know, Steve, your daddy has been very, very ill.’ Steve nodded. ‘We’ve been doing everything to try to make him better. He’s tried to get better. But sometimes that’s not enough – his illness is very strong.’ Steve nodded. ‘He’s asleep now. He may go into a deeper sleep. He may go into a sleep so deep that he cannot wake up.’ Steve nodded again. ‘Do you know what I’m trying to say to you?’ Steve nodded again.