By Myself and Then Some (69 page)

I’d always been musical – one of my great frustrations had been my
inability to sing. If I did this show, I wouldn’t be dancing with Fred Astaire, but I
would
be in a musical.
Could
I do it? How do you decide if you can do something you’ve never tried before? I’d always gambled with my career, but would this be really going out on a limb! The idea was that I would play Margo Channing, the part played to perfection in the movie by Bette Davis. Wouldn’t it be funny – funny in the proper context, I would hope – to be playing the same character as my childhood heroine? I heard the score – liked what I heard. I might fall flat on my face with this one, but I might not. I’d be terrified, but that was nothing new. It would mean a lot of work, but that could only be good. I thought and thought and finally decided to take the plunge. What the hell – with everything else in my life shaken up, might as well go all the way. I remember Moss Hart saying you have to shake up your life every seven years – this was less than seven years, but a needed shake-up nonetheless. Once I said yes, I was terrified. Who to direct it? I’d need all the help I could get.

My first move was to start voice lessons. I arranged to work with Keith Davis, the voice coach who had helped me on
Cactus Flower
. And I’d go regularly to a decent gym until a couple of months before rehearsal, when I’d have to start serious body work. From all I could glean from experienced friends, it was stamina which would carry me through in the end. But at least I had a goal – a reason to get up in the morning. I would be totally disciplined, do absolutely everything I had to do. I picked Angela Lansbury’s brains about what she had done to prepare for
Mame
. Angela – a damn good actress and a total pro – gave me the full lowdown on what a musical entails: nothing short of slave labor. There’d be no room in my life for anything else. But at that point I
had
nothing else, and no real expectation of finding it. Yet I was enjoying life alone, though very frustrated still at my inability to get a divorce. Jason was inaccessible in Europe and in no hurry, while I wanted it behind me. I needed that legal piece of paper – that public statement. Why was it so bloody important? Training. I’d been brought up on marriage certificates – divorces – proof positive of one’s official condition.

I was at a low financial ebb – hadn’t worked for a year and a half. If the show went well, I’d earn a lot, but until then I had to watch out. I wasn’t used to thinking about money. Through my life with Bogie it had always been there; with Jason, though he never stopped working, most
of his earnings went to past wives and growing children. Yet there’d always been enough. He paid his way – plus. People were under the impression I was a rich widow. Wrong! After Bogie’s death, newspapers had published part of his will – over a million dollars – a fortune! Yes, but they neglected to mention that the government took over half. Why do you have to pay for dying? I do not understand, and no one will ever be able to explain to me why what you have earned in your lifetime does not belong to you to do with as you see fit. God knows the government gets enough in taxes while you’re earning it. Incomprehensible. Anyway, what was left was half mine in trust and a fourth each for Stephen and Leslie. A cushion, but not enough to live on. And twelve years later the cost of living had risen considerably, and responsibilities continued. I wanted to go to Europe for five or six weeks before starting work on the show – my last fling. The Nivens invited me, with Sam and Leslie, to spend two weeks at their beautiful villa at Cap Ferrat. And Sam Spiegel offered me his flat in London for as long as I wanted. So there’d be no hotel bills – just tourist plane fare, with Sam going for half. I could just manage that – a brief stop in Paris, then train to the Nivs.

Until we left on July 1 it was voice lessons three times a week with Keith and work on the score with Peter Howard, our conductor. I’d been working for a few weeks with Peter when Charles Strouse, the composer, walked in to listen to me. My nerves began to jangle immediately, but I’d have to sing in front of many – better start learning now. Just concentrate on your breathing – the meaning of the song – forget him. But how can you forget the man who wrote it and is now judging you?
Why wasn’t I born with a voice?
But I sang, and felt it wasn’t too bad – Peter, playing the piano, was giving me approving smiles. I didn’t know Strouse well, and he seemed very serious to me. As I finished, he looked at Peter and said, ‘She was flat on that note.’ What a boost for my morale! I felt like a fool – inadequate – became defensive. ‘If you wanted Streisand, you should have got her!’ Peter was on my side – said I was doing well. I asked Charles to do me a big favor and not come around – it was too soon for him to listen to me. Months later I reminded him of that episode – he hadn’t meant it that way at all, I had misunderstood. He’d known I could do it, he’d just wanted Peter to be aware of my weak spots. We had become friends by then, but at the beginning I was too fragile to accept that kind of criticism. I knew I wasn’t a singer – I knew that everyone else knew it too – but by
dint of hard work, perseverance, much encouragement, I was sure I could do it. I could act it. Just give me enough time.

L
ate in the spring Mother
made another trip to the hospital – same problem, pulmonary edema. Again it happened late at night, again she asked the doctor, ‘Is this it?’ She’d had so many scares, poor love. What a way to live. This too was a short stay, but it’s strange that I still didn’t find her recurring edema ominous. It was just something that happened – that would be taken care of – and then she’d be fine. I accepted it as part of life. I hated hospitals, hated to see her in one, but as she behaved more with annoyance than with fear, I didn’t become anxious.

Lee had planned a golfing weekened over Memorial Day. Mother didn’t want to go, and Lee wouldn’t leave her. She suggested she come stay with me, and I wasn’t overly receptive. Not to excuse myself, but I was apprehensive about something happening, with only me to deal with the oxygen. I was plain scared. She was upset at my lack of generosity, and she had reason to be, but I was so emotional about her that I feared for my behavior under duress. It was the one time in my life I truly felt cowardly.

She said, ‘Lee hasn’t had a moment’s peace for thirteen years. He works hard, he needs to get away and relax. How can you be so selfish?’ She was right. I fell very short of the mark that afternoon. Of course Lee could go, of course she could come – I would love to have her. As the weekened approached, Lee brought her to my apartment – with her portable oxygen tank, which he showed me how to work. Preventive measures had to be taken. Nothing left to chance.

One of my mother’s habits that I remembered most clearly from childhood was her rising at seven, taking a bath, and dressing immediately. She had always been ready to go off to work when she woke me up for breakfast. Now, some twenty-five years later, her routine remained unchanged. Very reassuring, that kind of steadiness. She stayed in my bedroom. My bed was enormous, and I wanted to be there if she rose during the night. And it was really fun having her there – I’d forgotten how much I enjoyed her. The first morning I woke up to find her dressed, with a cup of coffee in her hand, having seen Sam and Leslie off to school. They adored having her there, and she was mad about being with them so much. I was a daughter again, and
it felt good; I’d been alone a long time. The second night she woke up in the middle of the night – I opened my eyes to find her sitting on the edge of the bed. I quickly got up, walked around to her side, put my arm around her, asked her if she felt all right. Did she want anything? Should I get the oxygen? No, she just felt a little weak – she’d be okay. She leaned her head against mine and we just sat quietly – mother and daughter – for about fifteen minutes. I stroked her hair, her arm, feeling very protective, full of love – and going over in my mind what to do with the oxygen if the need arose. She had never leaned on me before. We were very close together those three days. I so loved her being with me, I couldn’t bear the time to end. The day Lee was to collect her, I wanted her to stay, but she wouldn’t dream of it – she belonged with her husband. What a dunce I was – I could have had her many weekends. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied with my own life, I might have thought of it. If I’d known how wonderful it was to have her in my house, I might have thought of it … If –

Steve came home from Boston University, to which he’d transferred, with the announcement that he was in love. Her name was Dale, and she was from Connecticut. He had to be with her – he wanted to spend the summer in her parents’ home – he’d get a job. He was very emotional about her, desperate to be with her. I hadn’t met her, but I’d never seen him like this. He wasn’t working at school again. In his emotional outpouring came the extraordinary information that he’d been trying drugs in Pennsylvania – grass, acid – but that since meeting Dale he’d been off it all. I’d known nothing about his drug scene and was deeply shocked. Stupidly, it hadn’t occurred to me that drugs had been part of his period of no communication at Penn. Naïve was I about this child of the Sixties. It was going on everywhere, why should Steve be unaffected? But there was no damage done, thank God. And if Dale had got him to stop, he must love her a lot. He seemed so young to me – he
was
so young: twenty. Came the awakening that I didn’t know him as well as I thought I did. I didn’t really know how he’d been spending his days, weeks, and months in college these last two years.

Neither college had been successful for him. He couldn’t find his way, he didn’t know what to do with his life. At that moment the only thing that mattered was to be with Dale. He lashed out at me with a resentment he’d been harboring for God knows how long. ‘You’ve never been what I thought a mother should be. Never in the kitchen,
cooking dinner – always working!’ I’d thought he understood about my work. Some mothers stay home, keep house; some work. That is not what makes a mother. He was very immature. Was it all pouring out of him because he felt this emotional need? Did he really mean it, or was he just angry that I was there and Dale wasn’t? Did he truly feel I’d been a rotten mother? I was faced with a young man who apparently had never understood what I was about at all – nor I him. He hadn’t seen beyond his own needs and desires, but do children ever? I suppose I hadn’t either with my mother It takes a lifetime to understand a parent. I thought, ‘Later, when he’s not in such an emotional state, we can talk – I can find out more.’ I knew his basic instincts were good, and I also knew he’d had a rough go, being his father’s son. He never asked questions about Bogie, never wanted to know details. I tried – casually on the surface, knotted up inside – to give him pertinent facts as the opportunity arose. He accepted the facts, but didn’t care to delve deeper, and I had the good sense not to push. ‘Eventually,’ I thought. Now I don’t know if there will be an eventually. The one thing Steve has been consistent about is that
African Queen
is his favorite movie, and that he wants Bogie’s Oscar. So, though he may have blocked out his father from childhood on, turned his back on his pain, he did really care about some identification.

Mother returned to the hated hospital on June 26, this time with an irregular heartbeat. I saw her every day. She thought she’d be out by July 1, but as that date approached, it was clear she wouldn’t be. I had no intention of leaving for Europe before she was home, so I put off our departure to the fifth. Every day they said she’d be out the next – I didn’t know what to do. She seemed perky, so I decided to go, but I’d put it off yet again. I drove Sam and Leslie out to the hospital so they could wave to her from the street. Children weren’t allowed to visit, but as she had a room facing the front of the building we did the next best thing.

Finally came the date of departure. Mother went home that morning. I finished packing, got the children organized, and went to spend a few hours with her. We sat on her terrace. She wanted to make me tea – couldn’t stand being waited on herself – but this time I made it. I wanted her to promise no exertion. I gave her my itinerary – told her I’d find the lovely cotton nightgowns she preferred – promised to write regularly. She said, ‘No phone calls – I don’t want you spending
your money.’ I hugged and kissed her goodbye and said I’d be back before she knew it. As I waited for the elevator, her front door opened. I was startled by that unfamiliar gesture. She said she just wanted to see me again – say goodbye again. I walked back, put my arms around her again, asked her if she was okay. Yes, of course, she just wanted to have another look at my silly face. The truth, I realize now, is that she didn’t want me to go, but would never ask me to stay. I gave her a smile, a squeeze, and walked into the elevator.

P
aris was as beautiful as
ever, and after about a week we took the train to Cap Ferrat. The Nivens were waiting for us. It was marvelous to see them – I had missed my two good friends. And their villa was unbelievably beautiful, with a pool filled with sea water, and a garden and gazebo on the edge of the Mediterranean. I subjected David and Hjordis to my vocalizing – played them my tape of the score, sat every day on the pool deck facing the sea while barking my exercises and trying to sing my songs. Poor Mediterranean. Innocent couples riding their pedalos or lazing in the sun, private planes trailing advertising streamers, water-skiers – all were subjected to my sounds. But I was not intimidated. Nothing could stop me! It was a perfect visit – easy, full of laughter and health. And how good to know people you loved were alive and well in their own part of the world.

We went back to Paris for a few days. At Chanel one afternoon I was told Katie Hepburn was there. I let out a yell – ran into her dressing room, where we laughed and hugged each other. She was fitting her clothes for
Coco
, her first musical, which was to open in November. We decided we were both crazy doing musicals, but enjoyed the fact that we were doing them at almost the same time. And I’d be able to be at her opening.