By Myself and Then Some (86 page)

She painted – she drew a character portrait for Bogie and me. She watercolored a self-portrait for me – delivered the day after I won the Tony for my performance in
Applause
over hers in
Coco
. As I read her praise of me written more than thirty years ago, I am filled with nostalgia, great love for this amazing woman and am stunned by her flattery. For better or worse, here it is in her own words:

I blushed when I first read it. I blush as I write it now. So flattering – so sweet – that she thought so highly of me. She could never say it, anymore than I could, but she could write it – as I could. Remembering the fifteen-year-old me in the third balcony watching her on stage in
The Philadelphia Story –
in complete awe – to the meeting of her, getting to know her, during the filming of
The African Queen
in the wilds of the Belgian Congo and the Victoria Falls, seeing the side of her few would have seen – to being accepted as a true friend despite the difference in our ages – with our bond growing stronger through Bogie’s illness and death – then the following years of closeness as we traveled for work and life in general until Spencer’s death, and being able to talk about our lives on a personal level – to her arriving at my apartment with a small bouquet of flowers in her hand a few hours after I brought my newborn
son, Sam, home from the hospital – the first of my friends to set eyes on him – his godmother. Typical Kate – is it any wonder I adored her and felt and told her that ten minutes of her would be worth twenty-four hours of anyone else. Sentimental in spite of herself. When I was very rundown in the Bel-Air Hotel with two-year-old Sam, and Jason living the part of Eugene O’Neill’s Hughie, disappearing – it was Kate who shook me up, telling me, ‘You’ve got to get out of this. You’ve forgotten what a tree looks like – the sky. You have to come down to a beach house I rent in Trancas and breathe the ocean air.’ I did that then and so loved it and the house that I rented it for several years after that, both with and without Jason.

Years of dinners on trays in Turtle Bay, cooked by devoted Nora. Katie never would go out – always meals at home – whether she was in a play or not – dinner was at 6:00 p.m. and you’d better not be late. I didn’t dare. She was an early morning day person – I was a late morning night person. Except when making a movie, of course – waking at 6:00 a.m. and trying to sleep by 10:30 or 11:00 at night always took me the first week of shooting to get in the groove. I always adjusted my time to Kate’s – if you wanted to spend time with her, those were the rules. By 8:30 you were out of there and she was mounting the stairs to her bedroom. She was a character all right, a fascinating one. I keep remembering seeing her in Paris with Spencer and the Garson Kanins. She was wearing a dress. Spencer refused to take her out unless she wore a dress. She wore one of the probably two dresses that she owned and she was glowing, brimming over with joy. As the years wore on, through good times and bad, right to the end, Kate always had a glow.

She was spoiled, I suppose. Spoiled in the sense that the rules she lived by had to be respected and agreed to by any and all who entered her domain. When it came to dinner invitations, Kate did the menu. Having a marvelous cook like Nora helped. I never worried about the food. I knew that Katie was more a meat and potatoes person than a fish person. That was just dandy with me. Nora always climbed the stairs carrying the trays adorned with perfectly cooked lamb, roast potatoes, parsnips (which Kate loved and, as it turned out, I never had except from her kitchen). String beans were often on the menu, as were beets, lima beans, a green salad and Katie’s favorite dessert of ice cream – chocolate and coffee topped off with her favorite brownies and Nora’s lace cookies. I still have the brownie recipe. And I will NOT share it.

These dinners were very reminiscent of the dinners Katie cooked for Spence. She might always have been, but she certainly became, a first rate and inventive cook for Spence. And when I had a meal with them, it was always meticulously and carefully served by herself. Her sole aim was to please him, which she unfailingly did. The main difference in evenings with Kate after Spence died was that we always had a drink before dinner. Katie had her scotch whisky, I had either vodka or Jack Daniel’s. I had hardly ever seen Katie take any alcohol before that time, only very occasionally in Africa during
African Queen
and then only rarely. She knew that both Bogie and John Huston enjoyed their drinks. She didn’t want to encourage them but she did like to join in from time to time.

There was always an element of unpredictability and surprise about Kate. Looking back at those times – all of them – I realize that. I was privy to the sight of Kate, the woman. Not strident, still opinionated, but always willing to listen to John and Bogie. Knowing, of course, that they both adored her. Watching her sitting on the floor pouring coffee for Spencer, listening – no, hanging on – to his every word, looking up at him with total adoration. She was a woman in love, blindingly, unquestionably in love. Spence, on his part, was always sweet with her, affectionate, though not overly demonstrative. But there was no doubt in my mind, or anyone else’s who saw them together, that they were totally committed to one another and that they were totally balanced and belonged together. I spent a great deal of time with them after Bogie died. Somehow, don’t ask me how, I always felt Bogie was the invisible fourth. The vision of him always came up in conversation. Katie and Spence were that rarity – two actors who genuinely felt so close to one another – respect and love – plus non-stop laughter.

Until the day she died, I never thought of Kate without thinking of Spence and Bogie. After all, our friendship really began and solidified during the making of
African Queen
in 1951. To think that Kate’s and my friendship endured for more than fifty years is some kind of record. And it created a special bond between us – me without Bogie, followed by her without Spence. Those years of memories of four of us – then three of us – then two of us. Now only one.

After my first meeting with Katie when I was filled with fear – when I saw the many facets of her character, she was only once unkind to me. And even that once was not really her fault. A few years before she died,
she said one day, ‘I’m not spending any more money.’ And on another occasion, ‘Don’t ask me any questions. I can’t remember anything.’ I suppose that was a slight indication of how her life would alter. The unkindness came one night as we were having dinner in her house on Turtle Bay. As usual, the two of us. Norah had cooked her customary delicious meal. Conversation was not exactly flowing. I was telling her of my activities, of Sam’s – it was pretty much a one sided conversation. Some silence followed then she looked at me and said, ‘What do you want?’ I was stunned by that, not understanding until she said again, ‘What do you want?’ – then once more followed by an impatient letting out of breath. That made me so nervous, I was at a loss. After saying, ‘I don’t want anything, Kate’ – which did not sit well with her, as she was still staring at me – I felt so uncomfortable. I finally said, ‘I must be going. Thanks for dinner. I’ll see you soon.’ I then made for the kitchen where Nora was cleaning up. I told her what had transpired and how I never wanted to go through that again. Nora said, ‘You know she doesn’t mean that, Miss Bacall.’ I said I hoped not but I was at a loss and very upset. That clearly indicated the major change that had come over Kate.

Not long after, she went to her house in Connecticut and that was where she would spend the last years of her life. I never went back to Turtle Bay. I continued to visit her in Connecticut. The visits were obviously not as often as in New York. It was a good two and a half hours to get to the Connecticut house so after allowing a solid two hours to spend with Kate and another two and a half hours back, it was a day gone. I called frequently and visited when I could. By then Katie’s ability to recognize had visibly altered. I would enter the living room. She would be seated in her favorite chair. At the beginning, she would give me a blank look that would change to a flicker of an eye as she realized she knew me. As I talked on about Bogie and Africa – about Spence – our trip to Paris – mutual friends – Olivier – Vivien Leigh – George Cukor – Ethel Barrymore – she seemed to connect me, them and her. She did not verbalize it. Nora said she knew, the young woman tending her would know. I’d ask, ‘Do you want to go outside?’ She’d say an emphatic, ‘No.’ She would sit in her chair, lost in her own thoughts. I would sit with her. Finally when it was time for me to leave, I would give her a hug. She would either say, ‘Stay’ or give some indication, couldn’t I stay longer? For dinner? – I would say, ‘Next time.’ It was always sad to see her like that – though she did not seem unhappy – and it was
always sad to leave her. She was ninety-three or -four then and had had a full life, a life of her choice. Even so, I had hoped she would live forever.

The very last time I saw her, I walked right over to her in her chair in the living room, sat next to her, kissed her. She seemed to know me a little. There were two large picture books – one with a shot of Bogie from
The African Queen –
one of Spence. As I showed each to her and spoke to her of these two men who meant so much to her, she miraculously seemed to brighten and understand. Television journalist Cynthia McFadden, who had driven me over, said she was sure Katie had connected and understood. Cynthia and Katie had become friends some years before. I think Katie almost thought of her as a daughter. Anyway, they were close and Cynthia had seen enough of Kate to know when she responded and when she didn’t. That day when I was about to leave, she said, ‘Please stay.’ After I had stayed for a half hour longer, I leaned over and kissed her cheeks many times after which she looked at me and whispered, ‘Thank you.’ So touching – so sweet. I wondered how much she knew. It mattered not. She knew something.

T
here have been far too
many in the losses column in 2004, but there is one that meant a great deal to me personally by the name of Alistair Cooke. Our friendship began in 1952 with Adlai Stevenson. Alistair was reporting on him, Bogie and I were appearing at various rallies and whistle stops with him. All very exciting, all great fun. Bogie and I and Alistair and Jane Cooke hit it off immediately. Alistair was a man who seemed to know a great deal about everything, wrote pieces for the
Manchester Guardian
, and delivered a
Letter from America
on radio. There was not an American or a Brit who did not tune in every Sunday morning to hear Alistair’s resumé of the past week in the United States. He had become a U.S. citizen and traveled the country filming and writing a book on
Alistair Cooke’s America
. He was very visible on TV, in book form, endlessly interesting and inventive, with charm, good looks, wit and mind-boggling braininess. He also hosted two brilliant shows –
Omnibus
and
Masterpiece Theatre
. The four of us had great times together on both East and West Coasts. He and Jane contributed so much to my life after Bogie’s death. Excellent at spirit lifting – both of them – and clarifying for me things I might feel cloudy or fuzzy about. And we
would turn up at different locations with many of the same friends: me in London when he was there, him in San Francisco when I was touring in
Woman of the Year
and he was touring with
Alistair Cooke’s America
, him in California when Bogie was surrounded by people telling him how to write his will, an eerie experience for all with me in complete denial. So many memories throughout those many years, they give you such a solid base – built in connections – conversations witty and informative with the extra perk of his piano playing of show tunes. At least there is so much to draw upon with all my losses – those friends who enriched my life – gave me pause – gave me thought – enlightened me.

In a way, friendship was my family. It was my good luck to have such an array of friends – all different – all talented – all intelligent – all complicated – all witty. And lucky I am that there are more still who are laughing on along with me – not by a thread, but hanging on nevertheless. So there is reason to be grateful and to be able to laugh and even enjoy one’s quirks, qualms and quackiness.

M
y need to work remained
my focus and necessity. Without warning, a script arrived with an offer for a movie called
Birth
to be made completely in New York. Hooray! I get to sleep in my own bed! No suitcases adorning the room to pack and unpack, no goodbyes to Sophie. How lucky can you get? The director was to be Jonathan Glazer, whose first effort was a marvelous movie called
Sexy Beast
and, as if that weren’t enough, which it most certainly was, Nicole Kidman was the star and I would most happily be her mother. I was thrilled beyond words. Not only because I love Nicole and admire her talent and mind but also because being her mother was such a good part in a terrific, original script written by Jonathan. So here it was – another adventure – this British director’s second movie and at a time when there is little work for women of any age, how lucky for me to be wanted by this very talented young man.

The part was really first rate. I thought, my God at this time in my life and career to be in a movie like this, with this major director – an independent movie – little money of course – but that’s the way it is in the movie business these days. If it’s not a studio movie, salaries are small – and that is a gross understatement. However, I’d still rather work with talented, new people any day, than do some of the big, high-paying
mediocre movies that are too often made in Los Angeles. I have nothing against high paying, mind you. I would love to be the recipient of high pay in a good studio movie. It’s always a plus to be able to pay the rent. Unfortunately, I have not been chosen by either Steven Spielberg or Martin Scorsese or Woody Allen to appear in one of their films. I have tried to convince Martin Scorsese that I would be a perfect Mafia member. Why does it always have to be a man? He smiles sweetly, ‘Yeah, great idea.’ He’s such a terrific director but I know it will never happen.