By Myself and Then Some (65 page)

In those first months every night was a party. Jason went to California to make a movie (The
Devils
had closed in January), and I was free to thrive on my success. I loved the play, really felt good onstage. I was fascinated by how much at home I felt. Theatre seemed a better medicine for me than films. I loved the continuity, the building of a performance from first act to last. I loved it because it was live, and because once that curtain went up, it was mine. An incredible feeling. When the audience is with you, you can feel it, you can pull it along even more.
Cactus Flower
was a very wearing show for me, playing it was like keeping a balloon in the air for nearly three hours. There’s nothing tougher than comedy, and this was frothy and light, worked with an enormous amount of energy. I could never let up, not a moment to relax.

And I had many quick changes. Eloise White, my dresser, was working really hard – the changes in
Cactus Flower
were more like a musical than a straight play. Part of my deal was that Merrick would pay my dresser. Standard salary. I would add a bonus. Now I’d have to ask him for a raise for her. It was David’s birthday and Abe had invited me to celebrate it with them after the show. David came into my room – a perfect opportunity, I thought, so I broached the subject. He exploded. The David Merrick I’d been warned about but had never been exposed to suddenly appeared. ‘You’re just like all the other damn actors. Never satisfied! When you make an agreement, stick to it. I thought you were different, but you’re not, you’re just like all the others.’ And he stamped out of the room. For Christ’s sake, the man is a maniac! That took care of that night’s supper. He was in such a fury that he never came backstage again. I gave Eloise the raise myself, and David and I did not speak for the remainder of the run. Everyone who knew him said, ‘He’ll always be like that – we knew it would happen –
we told you. He hates actors.’ I could never understand his outburst. He was making a fortune on the play.

As happens easily with comedies, after a while they get out of hand. An actor getting laughs is apt to string out the scene to make the laughs last longer. It never works for long, it distorts the play, louses up the timing. Brenda was starting to do it, so was Barry. Now, I am a very disciplined performer – I work my ass off, and I believe in keeping a play, particularly a comedy, moving. I pride myself that my timing is on the nose. And I was tired and overwrought, all the tensions of the last five years adding up to my fraught state. On top of the rest, John Frankenheimer started to shoot his movie without a word to me. I could have killed him. I was committed to
Cactus Flower
for two years thanks to his promise and my stupidity. I said nothing to John about it for years, but I was upset, and wouldn’t forget it. It wasn’t malice on his part, just carelessness. Anyone in our business should know that one doesn’t speak lightly to actors about work. Our futures are too precarious.

My holiday week was approaching – and about time. Jason had rented a beach house, so I went to California to collapse. I slept a lot, started to relax. The week’s highlight was a big party Rock Hudson gave in his new house, which he’d bought from Sam and Mildred Jaffe, who’d moved to England. It was a house full of old memories and new people. Everyone was friendly, but I didn’t feel part of the town at all. I enjoyed California living, especially at the beach, but it was not to be permanent again – of that I was certain.

The Bogart boom had been in full swing that year. All the books had come out, about six all told, including Joe Hyams’. I had written what I thought was a hell of an introduction to it, but I found the book disappointing. No one had done justice to the man yet. I agreed with Budd Schulberg, who thought John O’Hara should write the book. Or Nunnally. But it never happened – people were too caught up in their own lives, understandably. I’d been asked to write one myself, which I steadily refused to do, but Bogie’s presence permeated my life once more. It took me twenty years to realize that I’ll never get away from it – nor should – and don’t wish to.

My second year of
Cactus Flower
was tough. I was physically tired and needed a real vacation, but I wasn’t going to get it, so press on, old girl. Besides, everyone I ever knew in the theatre and films was coming
to see it, which was fun. Great to be good in a show that’s a hit. No apologies to make.

The main lesson learned during the run was that the stage was very much home to me. I loved it. To say nothing of the fact that I was offered the best in the theatre, as opposed to the least in the flicks. I was referred to in the press as the toast of the town, but it never went to my head. I remembered too well the story Bogie had told me about Helen Menken in
Seventh Heaven
being that year’s toast of the town – until Jeanne Eagels came along a short while later in
Rain
to take the title. That’s the business. No matter how high the peaks scaled, there’s no guarantee it will last. But those two years belonged to me. No one could take away the kick I got when I happened to see the laughing face of Robert Kennedy looking up at me from the third row center, or was told by Jack Benny how perfect my timing was. Even John Huston seemed to show genuine enjoyment of my work.

Jason made several trips to California for films, and tried hard when home to be ultra-loving – a real husband-father. Sam was in first grade at Collegiate school, which was close to home. Leslie was still struggling along at the Lycée, and Steve was only home for holidays. Sarah, Jady, and David made fairly regular appearances, and we’d try to do as much together as we could. When Jason was good he was very, very good. He functioned better in films or at least in California than he did in the New York theatre. He drank in California, but the routine was not the same. There was something about theatre life – let’s have a drink after the show, stop by for a drink, etc., and the endless bars and favorite hangouts. Too many established patterns. I couldn’t and wouldn’t be a policeman any longer. I did tell Jason that if he had to drink, I didn’t want him doing it at home. I had put most of our liquor out of sight – I didn’t care if I never had a drink. I was immovable about his never being drunk within our home again. I was not going to have Sam or Leslie see him like that.

Spence and Katie had started
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner
. It was Spence’s first film in five years. He had not been well, he’d had ulcers, I believe – was always swallowing some terrible chalky substance. He was hospitalized in ’66. Katie used to bring him homemade soup and sit with him until he slept, slipping in and out the side door of the hospital. No one knew about it except a few intimates. She never veered off course. I think the only reason Spence agreed to be in the
film was that Stanley Kramer was devoted to him and would do everything to make it less taxing. Katie never took her eye off Spence – at his elbow unobtrusively if he should need anything. No danger of his wanting for a thing with her around. He had been apprehensive – he was so professional, he couldn’t bear falling short of the mark in work. Learn the lines and hit your marks – the hell with motivation. They didn’t understand how I could stay in a play so long. ‘Like being in jail.’

Steve was to graduate from Milton in June of ’67 on a Saturday – a matinee day. I asked my agent, Peter Witt, well in advance to broach the subject to David Merrick. Under no circumstances would I miss Steve’s graduation. Let him sue! Peter told David – David said no – I cursed, fumed, said I’d go anyway. As the time grew closer, I got tenser and tenser, telling Peter to prepare David for my not appearing Saturday. Why, oh, why did it all have to be so damned unpleasant? Why couldn’t producers be human beings? My son’s graduation, for God’s sake – once in a lifetime. I’d played
Cactus Flower
for a year and a half, never missing a performance – why couldn’t this be settled reasonably in an adult fashion? I couldn’t understand it then – I can’t now. Of all places, in the theatre there should be human understanding, compassion, just ordinary sanity about life. Christ, we’re not machines.

Finally Peter told me I would have to go to David’s office to plead my case. David had to be in his God position, I in my servile one. Okay – anything for Steve. I pulled myself together and on the appointed day went to David’s office. I wasn’t going to grovel. I told him the graduation was something I could not miss and I had hoped he would be understanding and not make a Dreyfus case out of it. I felt the way I had as a kid, raising my hand in class to ask if I could leave the room. It was ridiculous. Anyway, he played innocent – ‘Why didn’t you come to me in the first place?’ He would let me know. And later that day he called to tell me he’d provide a car to take me to and from the airport to ensure my returning in time for the night show. Total grace.

Earlier that week Spence and Katie had called to say they’d finished the film. Spence had delivered a ten-minute monologue non-stop without missing a line. He was relieved – proud of himself. Said Stanley had been terrific – thank God he hadn’t dropped dead before he was finished, with Stanley uninsured! We laughed.

On the morning of June 10, Jason, Leslie, Sam, and I boarded a plane for Boston for Steve’s big day. I couldn’t believe the years had passed so quickly – that Steve had reached young manhood. He had grown up well, a good, really decent boy. He’d been affected by the burdens of his lost father and the Bogart name, but he was coming out of it all right. He’d enjoyed Milton, and there was less friction between us. My head was full of images of his birth – childhood – Bogie. So much of our lives unfulfilled. It was a hard day in that respect, yet I felt so good about him.

We’d been airborne some twenty minutes when Jason, sitting behind me, tapped me on the shoulder. ‘A man behind me heard it on the radio – Spencer is dead.’ But I’d just talked to him – he was fine! Oh my God – how is Katie? Of all places to hear it – no telephone, no details. But details weren’t needed. The fact was enough. I was distraught. Spence so pleased he hadn’t dropped dead during the film must have known something was coming. I was so worried about Katie. How do you come to terms with the end of thirty years of your life? The biggest and best part? It was hard to think of anything else. And yet a few hours later I managed to swell with pride at the sight of Steve taking his diploma. One life begins, one ends. So much life, excitement, hope for the future at a prep-school graduation. While, three thousand miles away, my treasured Katie had lost her best friend.

T
he run wore on and
me with it. Barry left the show for a television series, Kevin McCarthy came in to replace him for a while, then Lloyd Bridges. And Brenda left. So there was much rehearsing in addition to performing. On November 18 I played my last performance of
Cactus Flower
. The cast gave me cards and a lovely silver mirror for my bag. Jason lovingly sent flowers, gifts; he was very proud of me, full of tender, loving care. Now, for months I’d been thinking of nothing but getting out of the play. After the first eight months, the audience begins to change and acting and the energy required to keep the comic balloon in the air becomes more work than play. Two years in sheer drudgery – to keep a part fresh for that length of time gives ulcers and leads to exhaustion. Yet I had created that part and I wasn’t crazy about anyone else claiming it as hers. And it had given me a place in the theatre – at least the beginning of one. But I couldn’t go on playing
it for the rest of my life. I left, hoping I’d get another part, but far from certain. In any case, the children would be happy to have me home for Christmas. Actors always work on holidays. But the only night I would rather be onstage than anywhere else is New Year’s Eve. I hate that night – the old ringing in the new. Everyone consciously loves everyone else at the stroke of twelve o’clock, and an hour later antagonisms flourish once again.

Jason was going to Italy for a movie early in the spring of ’68. I was definitely ready for that trip. He left about a month before I did. Mother had a birthday in March and for the first and only time in her life she said she would like me to have a dinner party for her. She was impossible to buy things for, never wanted me to spend money. I was happy to give her something she wanted – a dinner would be fun. I had the whole family and did the whole thing – funny toasts, birthday cake, candles (not the correct number), presents. She laughed a lot. It was the only time I gave a party for her – odd, now that I think of it. She and Lee were married in my house, but I’d never given her a party. I’m so grateful I did that year.

Robert Kennedy was our Senator. I had known Jean, Eunice, and Pat for years and liked them more and more, and I had worked for Bobby when he ran for Senator. I found him really extraordinary – I had a gut reaction to him and I knew I was right. He had shown such capacity for change – such a great heart, I couldn’t forget his reaction as he arrived in Atlanta after Dr King’s assassination, nervously turning a rolled-up piece of paper in his hand, saying, ‘I know what it is to lose a loved one in this way’ – so moving. Eugene McCarthy had made a mark with the young in the early primaries, and Bobby couldn’t decide about running for President. I was fiercely for him – we all, those who were for him, wanted him to make his statement. I fought anyone who disagreed with me, and when I got involved politically and emotionally I could not tolerate anyone who disagreed. Funny – I cared greatly about John Kennedy’s election, and worked for him, but I cared more about Bobby. He touched me more. I felt so completely that he was the man we needed – the one who would make all the difference. Some who’d known him in Joseph McCarthy days and when Jack was President didn’t trust him. But I did – he had changed, had had the courage to change and the capacity. I did what I could, what I was asked to do, for Bobby before leaving for Europe. There
was to be a rally at Madison Square Garden on June 17 and I’d be back for that.

My trip to Europe was all right at the start – toward the end of it Jason and I were not getting along at all. I couldn’t get away from him soon enough. He’d return to New York while I was still in Paris shooting a fashion special with Milton Greene and Joe Eula. I hadn’t worked since
Cactus Flower
and the thought of Paris for five or six weeks was anything but painful. Preliminary preparations were made, we shot a few scenes, and then the student uprising took over. No way to continue working. Everyone was walking around with transistor radios glued to their ears for the latest developments. I was staying at the Lancaster Hotel, which was emptying rapidly of tourists. I managed to get one call through to the United States to tell the children and Jason I was safe. They couldn’t get through to me at all. Mail was not going out or coming in. The hotel advised me to leave, the banks were about to close – it was not the moment to be in Paris. Sargent Shriver was our Ambassador at the time, thank goodness. He finally managed to find a station wagon that would drive Milton and me to Brussels, where we would board a plane. I headed for New York on June 5 – plenty of time to prepare for the rally for Bobby. I was able to call Mother and give her my flight number. She never failed to meet me at the airport, never tired of that first sight of her pride and joy. She was the one person in the world who missed me beyond all others. That night I was detained by customs, so I sent word to her to go home and I’d meet her there. Mother and Lee were waiting when I got home late, Leslie and Sam asleep. I was exhausted on a five-hour time change.