By Myself and Then Some (53 page)

Spence called me and in a most pleading voice said, ‘I couldn’t deliver the eulogy – I just couldn’t – I wouldn’t be able to get through it. I loved old Bogie. I could do it for someone I wasn’t that emotional about, but not for dear Bogie. Please understand, darling.’ Of course I understood. Darling Spence – he was too close – he cared too much.

Uncle Charlie and Rosalie called from San Francisco to say they’d be coming down. Betty Comden and Adolph Green called from New York. Ginny and Quent Reynolds, Ruth and Paul Zuckerman, were flying out. Frank was in New York at the Copa – he called – he’d probably come back for the funeral.

I decided that John Huston should deliver the eulogy. I asked him if he would – he said of course. We were standing in the hall talking when I heard Steve, who was lying on the floor at the head of the stairs, calling to me through the banister railing, ‘What is the date, Mommy?’ He was writing something. I went upstairs to find that in a little agenda book he had, he had written: ‘January 14th – Daddy died.’

I decided the service would be on Thursday the seventeenth, and that Bogie would be cremated while the service was taking place. I wanted no flowers – only contributions to the American Cancer Society.

The lanai and the Butternut Room were filled with friends – just sitting, giving support – quietly talking – recalling moments with Bogie – even some laughter. So much activity, there was no time for tears. I moved through it all zombie-like.

Bogie had always said he wanted no funeral. Quick cremation and his ashes strewn over the Pacific Ocean – he’d always loved the idea of a Viking funeral. I told Morgan I wanted to follow his wishes – to go out on the
Santana
and leave what was left of him in the ocean that meant so much more to him than land. Morgan told me I couldn’t do that – it was against the law. Now the law has been changed, but then it couldn’t be done. Morgan also felt that Bogie was too public a figure, and that there should be a place for his children to go to in later years, a place to find him. I was confused and torn. Did I have an obligation to keep a permanent place above ground? Perhaps so – though, to me, Bogie’s legacy on film was greater than the greatest monument could have been.

Toward the end of the first day the crowd began to thin out – David Niven came from work and there were a few others. I don’t know how I stayed awake, but I did. It was life’s longest day for me. It would be my first night alone – my first night without Bogie on this earth. Mother offered to stay overnight, an offer I leaped at. ‘You can sleep in the little room,’ I said. ‘Where will
you
sleep, then?’ ‘In our bed. I have to start sometime – it might as well be now.’

I sat with the children through their haphazard dinner – they were distracted, not hungry. I told them to eat only what they wanted. There was no point in insisting on a real meal – May was in no shape to cook it, they were in no shape to eat it. I wanted them to go to school the next day, I thought it would be better for them. I had spoken to Steve’s teachers, explaining he would be out Thursday, tried to make them aware of what he was going through. I’d alerted Leslie’s school. I counted on the sensitivity of others. They all seemed to understand.

Everyone had left by ten o’clock. The radio and television news were full of talk about Bogie. Special programs were being planned. I had asked Kathy Sloan to subscribe to a clipping service during that first week so I could put together a scrapbook for the children.

I had put Steve and Leslie to bed, listened to their prayers as they added a P.S.: God to please take care of Daddy and a God bless Mommy only. They were tired, but all the activity in the house had
keyed them up. The adjustment would take time – maybe forever.

At last Mother and I headed for the bedroom. That odor still hung in the air. Strange to have no nurses, not one familiar face, no sound after so many months. The bed looked larger than it was, and emptier. Every corner of the room seemed darker. Bogie’s dressing room stood as it had been left – closets and drawers brimming with clothes, some never worn. My head was filled with all that had to be done – what music should be played? All the people to be invited to the house after the service to drink their toasts to Bogie. And Forest Lawn awaited me in the morning. Of course it would be against the law to strew ashes across the ocean – how else would funeral homes make their money?

I slept – badly, but I slept, strangely aware of being back on my own side of the bed. That odor was still hovering. Was it really just this morning that Bogie had died? It seemed forever ago.

I woke up very early and went immediately to the children. I was worried about Steve. He got up, dressed, spoke little. I told him Lee would be there when we got home. He and Leslie had their breakfast, their nurse took them to the school bus and came back saying that there were photographers outside taking their pictures! I couldn’t believe it – was it really news to photographers that two small children were on their way to school on the day after their father had died? I wanted no photographs – how in hell could their lives go on like this? I called Joe Hyams, my press intermediary, very upset – asked him to try to find out who they might be.

Jess and I left for Forest Lawn – I had never been there before. The road that leads to it is a turn to the right just before the Warner Bros. studio. Funny to see the studio sign first (our beginning), then head toward death. There are acres and acres of green grass, headstones, bronze plaques, before you enter the building area. We entered a small building and were met by a man with a polished, professional manner – a man used to grief and prepared to take full advantage of it. We were led into a small, dark room with just one yellow bulb burning. There were four different bronze urns on display. The man in a slow, sympathetic (even if it was real I wouldn’t have believed it), mournful voice told me the price of each, gave me his recommendation. I chose one of them – I only wanted to get out of there. And would we follow him, please – he thought he had found a lovely spot for Mr Bogart. He took his keys and led me to a small garden with high walls – it was
called the Garden of Memory. He opened an iron gate. There were little bronze doors about the size of safety-deposit boxes. The niches behind them were fairly deep. Large enough for more than one urn. The man showed me the size of the plaque, asked me what I wanted on it – I told him just ‘Humphrey de Forest Bogart’ and the dates of his birth and death. He said. ‘Would you like me to print it here?’ pointing to the top of the plaque. ‘There’s room for all of you.’ I almost hit him – honest to God, is there no limit? Get me out of this place! ‘And you see,’ pointing to a small glass vase perched alongside the plaques with a pathetic flower in it, ‘you can have permanent care all year round for just a small fee.’ You’re not going to trap me into that, you bastard. These people get you in your grief and misery and sell you whatever they can at the highest possible prices. Bogie had left behind some of his cynicism with me. That, plus my own, kept me alert enough to keep saying no. And I was angry at the world – ‘no’ was my best friend. At last it was done. There must be a better way …

When I had got home, there were friends waiting for me. Frank had called and would call again. My friends felt I should get away after Thursday, that I had been shut in for months, that it would be good for the children to be in another place with other associations for a while. When Frank called again, he offered me his house for two weeks. After talking it over with Mother and Lee, I decided to try it. They would come with me.

At a final discussion with Morgan and K.C. about the service, it was decided to have K.C. read the Twenty-third Psalm. I chose music that was not gloomy. I would bring magnolia leaves from our own trees – have a few white roses – and on the other side of the altar, in clear view, I wanted to place the model of the
Santana
. No decision could have been better. As I think back on my life after Bogie died, I think that choice was the last sane one I made for many months.

Jess, who had gone to Forest Lawn to finalize everything, came back with a message to me from another ghoul there: ‘Please tell Mrs Bogart that if she would like to see her husband, he looks wonderful.’

Drs Brandsma and Flynn came to commiserate, to offer solace, though there was none, to talk about Bogie. People are never quite sure whether the bereaved want to hear the name of the one that’s gone. I did, I couldn’t speak at all without mentioning his name; he was so much my life, so much our home. And by talking about him constantly,
I might convince myself that he had only gone away for a boat race …

On Wednesday, the night before the service, there was to be a very special radio program. It was to last an hour, and consist of many Bogie interviews. I hungrily searched for any and all programs relating to him. I didn’t want to forget – I wanted to hang on. I remember sitting at the small table in the window of the dining room where we often had lunch. It was nine or ten o’clock at night, the children were asleep. The program began. Bogie’s voice was coming through. A few of us sat around the table listening – those inflections, those chuckles I remembered so well. I couldn’t speak. Everyone there – Mother especially – watched me for a reaction. None was visible. At the end I walked to the pantry where May was standing, having been listening to the same program. I fell on her warm, welcoming body, sobbing out some of the misery, frustrations, and tensions of the past year. I couldn’t cry that way with Mother – she would have fallen apart with me. I didn’t have to hold anything in reserve with May. She had been in that house every day those last eleven months, had known Bogie longer than any one of us, and she was May – all wisdom, all understanding. I hadn’t expected the tears – they just came.

Rosalie and Charlie had arrived that day. Oh, I was glad to see them. My Chach – how lucky I was to have him there. His presence helped so much.

The family and John were gathered at home by 10:30 – the service was scheduled to begin at 11:30, the church was five minutes away. John was nervously pacing. He had shown me some of the eulogy the day before, but I had not seen it all. The cars were waiting. We came downstairs, hugged and kissed those who were waiting. It was time to go. The children, John, and I were in the first car; Mother, Lee, Rosalie, and Charlie in the second; May, Kathy, and Aurelio bringing up the rear.

As we entered the church I could see that there were mobs of people all around. It was reported that over three thousand people lined the streets. At 12:30 there was to be a minute of silence at Warner Bros. and 20th Century-Fox. The church was packed, I recognized a few faces closest to me, tried to smile as I took my seat in the front row. I looked at the altar with the model of the
Santana
standing alone, proud and clear. It was a moving sight, much more than any casket would have been. Katie told me she was the first one
in the church, arriving early to avoid the press, and in a skirt, not her usual trousers. Devoted Katie, and when she saw the model of that boat she completely dissolved. The fresh green of our magnolia trees, the white roses were just right. K.C. stood up and spoke his words about Bogie and God. He recited the Ten Commandments because Bogie had believed in them and lived by them. And he read Tennyson’s ‘Crossing the Bar.’ Then came John. I feel compelled to quote verbatim from what John spoke that day. He said it better and more personally than anyone else could have. As I watched and listened to him, I thought of the influence Bogie had been in his life – how their careers had grown together, how each had made an impact on the other. I had always instinctively felt that the two people who most affected and involved John’s emotional life had been his father and Bogie. How hard it must have been for him to put those words together, written from his deepest heart, and speak them aloud. I treasure them, knowing how difficult it was for him to allow those feelings to surface.