By Myself and Then Some (56 page)

I can’t really remember how it all began – there must have always been a special feeling alive between Frank and me from earlier days. Certainly he was then at his vocal peak, and was wildly attractive, electrifying. And Frank had always carried with him not only an aura of excitement, but the feeling that behind that swinging façade lies a lonely, restless man, one who wants a wife and a home but simultaneously wants freedom and a string of ‘broads.’

The last few months of Bogie’s illness he was away working off and on. If in town, he came over at least twice a week. When he didn’t come, he never failed to call. Toward the very end he seemed instinctively to be there at the key moments. Having lived the better
part of a year in the atmosphere of illness, I guess I not only began to depend on his presence – the voice on the other end of the phone – but looked forward to him. He represented physical health – vitality. I needed that. Unwittingly I must have begun to feel that illness was all there was. It had become a way of life. Bogie had always paid an overabundance of physical attention to me – he had incredible energy – he was life. I was used to it, and I needed it.

I don’t know what I became during Bogie’s illness. I wasn’t aware of any change in my behavior – only more protective of him. I paid total attention to everything to do with him. But a part of me needed a man to talk to, and Frank turned out to be that man. He was life as usual – I was not. I was a healthy young woman with tremendous energy. Work was a channel. People, fun, activity – I needed them all for health. I didn’t feel consciously deprived – resented nothing – even had worked for part of that time; God knows what would have happened if I hadn’t had that as some release. But there was the odd hour of the odd day when I wanted something normal – a normal conversation. That need was magnified a thousandfold by the time Bogie died. So that my dependence on Frank became greater and greater. It wasn’t planned. It simply was.

After Bogie’s death I focused all my remaining energies on my children. To somehow keep life going – to have something to smile about even for a minute. The house had been so quiet for so long, then so noisy for the week after Bogie’s death, then so quiet again. The nights especially. I had never known that kind of quiet before. Or that kind of aloneness. I felt as though a large chunk of me were missing. I felt physically mutilated.

I wanted it all to come back. I wanted to wake up smiling again – I wanted something to look forward to – I hated feeling that my life was over at thirty-two.

If I was included by friends at any small dinner, it was natural for Frank to pick me up if he was going. He was alone too. And he always made me feel better – I was even able to laugh. He was a good friend. We enjoyed being together. He was helping me, looking after me. Swifty Lazar was another who was alone – who from the beginning made it his business to stop by my house daily. His devotion and care for me went beyond friendship in any ordinary sense, and I needed him and valued him and would forgive him any slip in years to come for
what he had been to me when I was desperate and without hope. But Frank answered a more basic, unarticulated need. When I was in New York and he called all the time to see how I was, I loved those calls. Even began to feel rather girlish – giddy. There was a man somewhere – a man who was alive – who cared about me as a woman. I came to expect those calls – to wait for them. And somewhere in my subconscious I intended that they would happen every day.

The fact of my being alone was crucial. Up to that time there had been either my mother or Bogie to lean on. Now there was no one. If I’d stopped to verbalize that, I’m sure I couldn’t have functioned. Would have been paralyzed with fear. All these years later, I see how hopeless it was from the start. How there was no way for me to think straight, how there was no way to really feel anything positive – like loving; no way for there to be a solid, good future for me and Frank. I was silently asking more than anyone has a right to ask – burdening him with my terrors, my unspoken demands. Had he been sure of himself and his own life then, it might have worked. But he wasn’t.

We continued for several months as close friends – he attentive, me overly receptive. Then suddenly he didn’t call at all for over a week. I couldn’t understand it – again someone lost, again alone. I tried to rationalize it, didn’t discuss it with any of our friends, but I was miserable.

Everything hurt. I loved my house, yet I couldn’t walk into the Butternut Room without seeing Bogie in a chair – or our bedroom without seeing him in bed. And there was the weekly nightmare that would literally have me waking up screaming. I didn’t know what to do. I had no work offers, though maybe with
Designing Woman
in full release that would all change for me.

I wanted a life. I didn’t want to stay home simply waiting for Steve and Leslie to get back from school – have dinner with them in that quiet dining room, with three large, empty, quiet rooms waiting for no one after dinner – a little television with them before bedtime – then me with myself –
by myself –
to read, to stare out a window or at nothing, to cry. Worst of all, I suppose, to possibly have to face what my life really was. I wish I had stood in the middle of a room and just screamed – screamed until there was no scream left. Instead I continued bottling up all emotion.

People always ask what you’d change if you had your life to live over
again. I wouldn’t change a lot of the unhappy times because then I would miss something wonderful. But I would change that period like a flash –
me during it –
how I behaved with Stephen and Leslie, either short-tempered or over-affectionate – avoiding everything I could that had to do with Bogie, with my past life – my insane desire to get out of my house. As if that could erase anything.

After a week of talking to myself – explaining to myself why Frank hadn’t called, why it all had suddenly stopped, carrying on imaginary conversations, what I’d say to him if I saw him, etc. – the phone rang. Frank on the other end telling me – just telling me as though I’d understand – where he would be taking me every night for the next week. I was so happy to hear from him that I pretended I did understand. I’d find out why later. But with Frank, forget about ‘why.’

I can only guess he’d taken that week to work out his feelings about me and decide whether he could take me on or not. That’s when our relationship really changed. No promises were made – it was just a fact. We were together. Where he was asked, I was. A couple.

People react in funny ways. My friends, who secretly felt this would not be a good choice for me, accepted us as a pair – thought it was serious. Except for my most intimate friends, they probably thought I could take care of myself. Frank’s friends, on the other hand, warned me not to push – thought I would be better for him than vice versa, and, knowing him, didn’t think he could last in his new role of fidelity. And some of the wives of his friends were strangely possessive toward him and not crazy about me. I was not just an arm decoration, not one to sit in a corner waiting for him to give me a smile or a sign that it was time to leave. I was too much of an individual for that – too established as a positive half of a positive pair.

I didn’t really know where I stood with Frank. I expected him to call – I expected to see him nightly, to become a permanent part of his life. I never understood the love game, I could never play hard to get. I had been married to a grown-up. Bogie knew what he was about and he wanted to know where he stood; if a woman loved him, he felt better, stronger, not threatened. Frank, on the other hand, liked to be kept off balance. I was the wrong girl for that.

But he made me feel I was the one for him. Maybe that was his art – or maybe for a time he really thought I was. We’d planned a great Fourth of July – he’d charter a boat, invite three other couples on
board. It sounded wonderful – Frank had introduced me to a world of charter planes and boats filled with his friends. Then, a couple of weeks before the Fourth, he withdrew again. Became remote – polite, but remote – off on his own. I couldn’t figure it out. Did it mean the Fourth was off? That I wasn’t invited? I had to make plans, I did have two other lives I was responsible for. Should I corner him, ask why? Frank was bad when cornered – better not. Again rejection. My insecurity moved to the forefront once again, took over. Frank was capable of a scene, and I dreaded scenes. A friend of his said, ‘Just sit tight – do nothing – be pleasant and pretend it doesn’t matter. Your life will go on.’ I followed that advice and it was right. But it was hard to do. Every time Frank acted this way I’d feel sick – scared – awkward.

Certainly none of my friends understood that kind of carrying on. If you loved someone, that was it – you were together all the time unless there was a fight. Something specific. But with Frank, forget specifics. He’d had so many scars from so many past lives – was so embittered by his failure with Ava – he was not about to take anything from a woman. ‘Don’t tell me – suggest’ – God knows how many times I heard that. But I didn’t know how to suggest.

It seems ridiculous now. It was so painful then. It embarrassed me to have to say I didn’t know if I’d be with Frank on a night when people were sure I would. It threw them off. Had there been a quarrel? No. Then why? I was miserable. Of course. I couldn’t think of anything else. My mother always said that was my trouble – over-concentrating on any one subject. Zeroing in. I tried to change me and I couldn’t. It was too deeply ingrained.

Then suddenly another phone call – the Fourth was on again, as if nothing had happened – no explanations. I swept all doubts under the rug and was in heaven. I loved being with him. I felt like a woman – no man had ever made me feel more wanted and more rejected, all in a week’s time.

This time I was determined to be cool. I succeeded for a while – it worked like a charm, but it had nothing to do with the kind of woman I was or am. When things started going well, I was on such a high. All my juices were flowing, I felt so alive. I refused to remember how low the lows had been. It was just that commitment was such a big step for him. When it got
too
big, he backed off. Simple. Sometimes he would sing his songs to me – irresistible. When he was away working clubs –
far away, that is – he called constantly. He seemed to need me as much as I did him. A few of my friends were terrified I’d marry him – knew I was riding for a fall. But I had the bit in my teeth and there was no stopping me.

I sold my house – had my gardener dig out all my clivia plants and take them to Frank’s house, as they were his favorite color, orange. I knew if I moved out of that house he’d feel better. He never mentioned it, but I knew Bogie’s ghost would always be there – always coming between us. I had to erase it – I would never have a future unless my surroundings changed. I didn’t realize then that you take yourself with you wherever you go.

The house I moved into was nice enough, it just had nothing to do with me. I got rid of half my furniture, my silver, I didn’t know what I was doing. Before leaving Mapleton Drive I gave a slam-bang Halloween party. ‘The Ball O’ Bacall.’ Frank was adorable – got there early, acted as host without being asked. It was a great party until the end, when something clicked in Frank – I don’t know what it was. He suddenly wanted to leave. Felt trapped, I guess. Fortunately, only a few diehards were left by then.

As a couple we were combustible. Always when we entered a room the feeling was: Are they okay tonight? You could almost hear a sigh of relief when we were both smiling and relaxed.

I was quite consistently happy for several months. I didn’t know what would happen between us – I only knew that when Frank’s moods didn’t take over, life seemed good. I had many sagging moments, when a wave of Bogie would wash over me, but that was mostly when I was alone. I tried to push him out of my mind. I only could think of Frank. And I thought of him too much. So that I could crowd Bogie out.

All through this time Steve and Leslie were always happy to see Frank. They’d been used to his frequent visits long before their father died, he’d been part of the framework of their lives. He gave them lovely presents, but thank God I never said anything to them even suggesting permanence.

The simple truth was that I just didn’t know where I stood. And though I tried not to push him in words, I must have been unable to stop myself. I don’t know what I was afraid of – that he’d lose his temper? Not call me? I guess all of that. I was totally vulnerable then,
my only thought was to please him. I was changed – life had changed me.

But it hadn’t changed Frank. He was still Frank – adoring one day, remote the next. We got through Christmas beautifully – had a lovely Christmas Eve at his house. We were planning New Year’s Eve in Palm Springs. He told me what food to buy – more than fifty friends were coming to his house. I was excited. Playing house, going to the market as though I were Mrs Him. What a babe in the woods!

That never-to-be-forgotten New Year’s weekend I was to act as hostess for Frank at a party at the new Romanoff’s in the Springs until Frank got there from town. About ten of us, all having a fine time. I remember his arriving – my getting up to greet him – his saying to everyone, ‘Doesn’t she look radiant?’ I remember feeling so happy. The next day he wanted me to go home. No specific argument – that click again. Of course I was in tears, wanting to be there, thinking of everyone expecting me to be there. I made up my mind it would be better to stay and not to have to answer questions later. I can’t believe my naïveté.

But I was one unhappy lady. Having decided to stay, I was stuck with it. That night should have shown me the way once and for all – unhappily, it didn’t. As friends came in, I put on my best smile, but of course they sensed that something was wrong. Frank stayed near the bar most of the night – I didn’t dare go near him. It was a full disaster. So painful – with friends all having a good time, my closest ones shifting their eyes from him to me nervously – that volcanic atmosphere. A nightmare.

That was the first time Frank really dropped the curtain on me. A chilling experience. I still don’t know how he did it, but he could behave as though you weren’t there. He drank heavily, which led me to believe he wasn’t very happy himself. I had to try to rationalize his behavior. I absolutely could not comprehend his ability to ignore me so totally.