by Nancy Bacon
The fight was on. As everyone knows, Duke was six-foot-four-inches, but Henaghan was a mere five-foot-eight and weighed about one hundred fifty pounds. It was like a pussycat going up against a lion, but Jim hung in there, getting in as many punches as Duke until everyone in the bar threw themselves into the fray. Seven or eight guys threw themselves on top of Henaghan to pull him away from Duke, but not one person tried to stop Duke from maiming Henaghan!
Suddenly Larry Harvey leaped across the room and landed on Duke’s back, got him around the neck and tried to pull him off Jim, but it didn’t faze him in the least. He reached one huge paw over his shoulder, grabbed Larry by the shirt collar and flung him over his head, sending him crashing through a plate glass window. As Larry flew gracefully through the air toward the window, Duke saw who it was. ‘Oh, my God, it’s my actor!’ he cried, and reached out as if he could pluck him back. Too late. The glass shattered and Larry disappeared from sight.
Everyone rushed outside and there sat Larry in the dusty, narrow street, broken glass in his hair and clothes, unhurt but haughty. He flicked a couple of particles of glass and dirt off his sleeve and said tartly, ‘Quite frankly, Mr. Wayne, this is one hell of a bloody way to treat a British subject! ‘
My life revolved completely around Jim Heneghan by this time. He didn’t want me to model anymore, so I quit. Just like that. (My agency was furious!) He said if I wanted to be a writer, I needed to learn my craft from the ground up, so I immediately took a job as editor of Knight magazine, one of the conditions being that they would publish one of my short stories every three months. When Jim saw that I seemed to have a natural flair, he declared that we must leave at once for Europe. ‘In order to be a good writer, you have to live life to the fullest, ‘he said. ‘You must visit exotic places you’ve only read about in books—see sights even your hungry mind could not imagine—smell, hear, taste.’
‘But… can you get away for that long?’ I asked.
Jim was married to the famous Broadway superstar/dancer, Gwen Verdon, and they had had a son together, Jim, Jr. who was only a few years older than me. They were husband and wife for all intents and purposes, but lived separate lives.
Jim went straight to the bar and poured himself a full glass of St. James scotch. ‘You know she’ll never give me a divorce. I thought you understood that.’ I nodded my head. ‘But, hey, it won’t be so bad. We’ll just be a younger, more hip version of Tracy and Hepburn.’ He was referring to Spencer Tracy and Kathrine Hepburn who had a 30-year love affair without marriage because Mrs. Tracy’s Catholic beliefs would not allow for divorce. I poured myself a gin and tonic and snuggled against him. · ‘Alright, Spence—here’s to living in sin.’
He laughed happily, his good mood restored. ‘Here’s looking at you, kid!’
‘Wrong movie,’ I quipped.
We were sitting on our patio, having a nightcap. We’d just come home from a small dinner party given by director Richard Quine and Jim was in mellow mood. He pulled me close and kissed the tip of my nose.
‘Come away with me, little Nancy,’ he whispered. (He refused to call me by the name Buni. ‘Jesus, it sounds like a stripper in an X-rated Disney cartoon!’) ‘I’ll show you all my favorite haunts and watering holes, I’ll introduce you to kings and presidents and even movie stars if I have to. Come on,’ he urged, ‘it’ll be a hell of an eighteenth birthday gift!’
‘Oh, please, ‘I mock-groaned. ‘The next thing I know you’ll be saying ‘we’ll always have Paris.’
‘We will always have Paris, little Nancy. God, I can’t wait to show it to you!’
first, london
One month before my eighteenth birthday (and just after Jim’s forty-ninth) he decided he had to move back to Europe, for good. He couldn’t take the States for too long of time, he said, he missed the madness that was Europe in those days.
He had always loved travel and had been in Paris in the late 20s when a struggling group of American artists, most of them writers, had tripped abroad individually and eventually wound up together where Gertrude Stein (herself an expatriate) dubbed them ‘The Lost Generation.’ Among these runaways there were some who were to become giants in international letters, including Ernest Hemingway, F. Scott Fitzgerald, Ezra Pound, T.S. Eliot, John Dos Passos, Archibald MacLeish and many others less well known. The tag ‘expatriate’ had had a rather unsavory definition until then, but now it became respectable and even envied. Soon other Americans were taking to the ships to make a reputation abroad before trying their craft at home.
Robert Cummings, then a young actor, was having trouble getting good parts in Hollywood, so he went to London and stayed just long enough to rent a theater marquee and put his name up in lights. He took pictures of it, returned to Hollywood with the prints testifying to his stardom abroad and crashed those gilded gates of success with ease.
Orson Welles was another impatient young actor, even younger than Cummings when he hit Hollywood. He worked for a few years but was frustrated by the slow grind of old time Hollywood and, while still in his teens, went to Ireland and served an apprenticeship with the Abbey Players in Dublin. He was ‘discovered’ and brought back to the states to begin a show business career that can only be called brilliant.
Jim and I arrived in New York in late summer and checked into the Hampshire House, an elegant and exclusive hotel on a tree-shaded block just across the street from Central Park. Everybody, it seemed, walked in New York and Jim ran my legs off showing me the city. We saw The Miracle Worker on Broadway with Anne Bancroft and Patty Duke and later met with Anne and her husband, Mel Brooks, for drinks. Jim knew everyone, it seemed, and I met more stars in the week I spent in New York, then I had in all the years I’d been in Hollywood.
Jim dazzled me with fabulous dinners at 21, The Top Hat, Sardi’s and other famous eateries, seemingly delighted that he could spoil me rotten. He bought me a complete new wardrobe, my Southern California beach girl look would be unacceptable in Europe, including my first mink stole. (He was to buy me three more minks during our stormy relationship because every time he got really angry at me, he’d destroy my mink!) We went for romantic moonlit rides in a Hansom cab, snuggled together beneath a cozy lap robe, necking like teenagers and taking small nips of brandy from his silver flask. We walked for blocks every day, taking in the sights and smells of that remarkable, fast-paced city as Jim pointed out famous buildings and landmarks.
One day we were strolling along and came upon a construction crew working on a new subway, so we stopped to watch for a minute. Jim was silent for several minutes, watching the men dig, then tapped one of them on the shoulder and asked, ‘How long before it’s finished?’
‘Oh, about three years,’ replied the man.
‘Hmm,’ said Jim, glancing at his watch, ‘guess we’d better take a taxi then.’ He whistled for a cab and escorted me inside, leaving the astonished workers staring after us.
Jim was so much fun to be with when he was sober, or even just drinking a little bit, but when he was on a binge he behaved like an evil little tyrant. He had wanted to pick up a few extra bucks before heading for Europe by writing some articles for the fan magazines and had sent off a proposal to one of the leading publishers at that time. Unfortunately, the publisher had dealt with Jim before and had vowed never again! No matter that he was a brilliant writer, his alcoholic rages were becoming legendary and many publishers wouldn’t deal with him.
We left for London the following day, ‘just a pecker length ahead of the law,’ Jim laughed as we boarded a Flying Tigers airplane, compliments of Jim’s old pal, Bob Prescott, president of the airlines.
There was just the two of us and the crew making the flight to London and it was like a fairy tale for the entire ten hours. It seems incredible now that it took that long to fly from New York to England but it did and I enjoyed every fantastic moment of it. Jim could charm anyone in the world in ten seconds flat if he wanted to—and he turned it on full voltage for the pretty steward
esses (as flight attendants were called then), sending them scurrying here and there for more pillows, a certain brand of scotch, a few sandwiches to tide us over until dinner was served, and they were thrilled to accommodate him. He had that effect on most people. They loved to please him.
We dined on Maine lobster and chilled champagne, compliments of our host, finishing the meal off with flakey Napoleons, hot coffee and warm brandy. Jim put the backs down on six of the seats, making one large bed, then completely covered them with pillows and a blanket. ‘Madam,’ he grinned, ‘your berth awaits.’
We jumped in together, covering ourselves up to our chins and giggling and necking at the same time. The necking won out and somewhere over Shannon, Ireland, I joined The Mile-High Club as we made slow, dreamy love amid the clouds in a star-filled night.
We arrived in London early the next morning and took a taxi to the Savoy Hotel. I was pretty shocked to find that the taxi cabs had no doors at all—the driver careened around corners so fast I was afraid that both Jim and I would wind up on the sidewalk! I was wearing a pantsuit when we entered the lobby of the Savoy and started toward the registration desk, and we found our way blocked by a tall, courtly gentleman in a in striped suit, sporting a red carnation in his lapel buttonhole.
He whispered something discreetly into Jim’s ear and Jim, known far and wide for his impromptu outrages, leaned away and bellowed, ‘You’ve got to be kidding! For eighty bucks a day my dame will wear pants or go stark naked if I tell her to!’
In those days, it was considered unseemly for a woman to wear trousers in the swank and elegant Savoy, but Jim was determined to change that stuffy rule. He demanded to see the manager, whom he had known for years, and when the poor man arrived, looking flustered and anxious when he saw who was causing all the commotion, Jim came right to the point.
‘What the fuck is this?’ he demanded. ‘I’ve been staying here for years—hell, I’ve probably sent more business your way than anyone else who stays in this dump!’
The manager tried to quiet him but Jim wasn’t buying. ‘I want a room—now!’ he said. ‘And if I don’t get it, I’ll set up housekeeping right here in the fucking lobby!’
Needless to say, a room was found at once and we were escorted quickly upstairs. I rushed to the window to look down at the Thames River as it rolled silently between the trees that edged it. It was smooth and dark, its black waters looking cold and uninviting, but to me it was fascinating. I’d read so much about the famed Thames River and I had to admit it didn’t look like any other river I’d ever seen.
Jim was already working on a bottle of scotch and grumbling about the shabby treatment we’d received upon our arrival. ‘Let’s blow this joint,’ he said, waving an arm about the room.
‘Let’s leave. It’s nothing like it used to be. It’s old and shabby and rundown a faded memory. Who needs it?’ He called for room service and had breakfast sent up for me (he was drinking his) and after I’d showered and changed my clothes, he informed me were checking out. I couldn’t believe it, after all the trouble he’d gone to get the room but I was getting used to Henaghan’s wild mood swings. I dutifully packed and followed him outside where he hailed a cab and instructed the driver to take us to The Mayflower Hotel across town.
‘This is more like it,’ he said as we were shown into a huge, luxurious suite complete with sitting room. He had a magnum of Mumms champagne sent up, along with three tins of caviar and a platter of tiny watercress and tomato sandwiches. We sipped icy champagne, nibbled on caviar, made love, slept a couple of hours, then dressed for our first night on the town.
The streets were shrouded in mist as we stepped outside and began walking toward Siegi’s, a small but famous restaurant just behind the Mayflower Hotel. Judy Garland and Sid Luft were there (old friends of Jim’s) and we joined them for cocktails while we waited for our table. Judy was there for her appearance at the London Palladium and she invited Jim and I to be her guests on opening night. I was totally in awe of her, hanging on her every word, never dreaming for one second that one day we would be close friends and share many evenings together, discussing men and the meaning of life.
But this night I was just another fan and as Jim and I settled into our seats at the Palladium, I craned my neck to ogle the glittering audience. I was sure they were all earls, dukes and princes and my heartbeat accelerated just being in the same room with them. Judy was late coming on and it was obvious she was nervous. She wore a short, tight black skirt, spike-heeled pumps and a brightly-sequined blazer that seemed aflame beneath the lights. She took her famous stance, legs spread wide apart and solidly braced on the stage, one arm raised, her pelvic and hips jutted arrogantly forward. The audience started applauding and cheering when she hit the first note and did not stop until the song was finished. They loved her and she knew it.
She relaxed as she ran a hand through her short, dark hair and threw a crooked grin to the crowd. Then something seemed to take over. I could actually see it. She stood straighter and her voice was strong and perfect, like a golden bell, her movements were smoother, the earlier jerky, nervousness now gone. She prowled the stage like a panther, growling, purring, seducing the audience into near frenzy and one could actually feel the love flowing thick and swift between her and her fans. It was overwhelming and even a little frightening. She seemed too frail to handle this onslaught of raw emotion that she herself was conjuring up. It was like a mass love affair between all those strangers and the tiny, wrenthin figure on stage.
For the next two hours Judy completely captivated the audience, holding them firmly in her little palm as she belted out hit after hit for their roaring approval. When the curtain came down, she was wringing wet, her hair plastered to her head and her lipstick worn off, but no one cared. Like a tidal wave, the audience heaved to its feet and gave her a five-minute standing ovation. I was no exception. I applauded until my hands hurt.
the lush life
According to Webster’s Dictionary, to rove means to wander, to ramble, to roam—in any direction, in any manner, walking, riding, flying, or otherwise. And the definition of a rover is one who rambles about, a wanderer, a fickle or inconstant person, sometimes a freebooter, a pirate, or an adventurer. I find none of these definitions unkind. Rather, I think, the lot fits me loosely, like a borrowed bathrobe, and I accept the total as a sort of minute biography of myself.
I was pleased to discover that Mr. Webster did not see fit to include the word aimless in his definition, because I am of the opinion that wandering, rambling or whatever without proper preparation is a deprivation of some of the joy, and joy is what travel is all about.
I admit that I am a bit weird about traveling. I experience rapture just touching the door knobs of travel agencies at night, long after they are closed. And the sight of one of these enchanted establishments actually open, with pilgrims crowding the counters and fondling travel folders, air-travel cards at the ready in sweaty hands, sends me reeling to banks and pawnshops looking for the bread to join them. If I see a bird fly by I want to go with him. Of course, times have changed in the decades since I was a rover… I pity anyone who never got to experience the freedom and joy travel once held. Dreaming, in any of its forms, thinking about it, talking it over while not yet committed, mulling on it, wishing it could happen. And then one day, when passion is almost overpowering and you faint in a strange travel office, you do it. Your dream becomes a reality, a thing of beauty, something it would never have become without the preliminaries in your head.
I was a dreamer long before I ever bought a ticket. While other little girls were out playing hopscotch and jacks, I would lock myself in the bathroom and journey to faraway places with some assurance that no intruder would barge in on me in the middle of one of my trips. I would sit on that cool plastic and wish I had a hundred and twelve dollars so that I could visit beautiful Omaha. And later on, when my wishing got a little more sophisticated, I would rent rooms in cheap hotels and lock myself in and tr
ip off to the more exotic areas. It was a tricky business. Now and then I would chatter out loud in alternate soprano and alto voices so I wouldn’t appear to the management like some fruitcake who checked into hotels alone. And in the mornings I would emerge, pale and haggard, looking as though I had spent the dark hours in the company of Joe Namath and Jim Brown. Dreaming can be hard on a person, but it’s worth it.
There were a few dreams that were better than all the others. In the first, I ran breathlessly down the Champs Elysees to a secret tryst beneath the Arc de Triomphe where Clark Gable awaited me, his uniform stained with blood. In one, sponsored by Somerset Maugham, I walked into the Raffles Hotel in Singapore, strode to the bar, and ordered a Strega. In another, I sat huddled in a small cafe off the Via Veneto while bombs exploded in war-torn Italy and Humphry Bogart kissed me and promised he’d be back for me. In still another, I stood on a beach at Bali and stared out to sea, looking for monsoons.
Well, dreams they were, and they didn’t come true exactly as I had dreamed them, but they were close enough. I sat one day in La Coupole restaurant in the Boulevard Montpamasse in Paris and sipped Campari with Ernest Hemingway, fascinated as he spun stories of his life. I bought that Strega at the Raffles one day and slept in the Mandarin suite that night as well. And I sat in a small cafe on the Via Veneto in Rome with Orson Welles, a true mercenary and soldier of fortune, tossing down Cinzano on the rocks and watching the promenade from Doney’s. I stood on that Bali beach, a little ludicrous in my native sarong perhaps, and ignored the monsoons while I gave my full attention to my dark-skinned companion.
Getting there is a joy indeed. But dreaming about it is where it’s at. And then, of course, the ultimate: The remembering.
