They were the last flowers she ever saw on this earth, they were the last flowers she received in this life. She’d always said, “Send me flowers while I’m alive, they won’t do me any good when I’m dead.”
Mother died on the morning of May 10, 1977. Almost to the exact hour, it would have been the 22nd anniversary of her marriage to Alfred N. Steele. By public accounting, she was 69 years old.
IN MEMORIAM
“God has set us free, mother … go in peace.” That’s what I was thinking as the man from Campbells and I descended the stairs and returned to the small blue room where the rest of my family was gathered.
Everyone except the lawyer was still there when I returned. Since there were no further decisions to be made that day, we left Campbells. It was Wednesday afternoon by this time. David and I had no sleep since Monday night. I was exhausted beyond what a shower and some food would cure. We decided to return to our hotel until it was time to meet everyone later in the afternoon. The two men from Pepsi were going to be at the Drake Hotel around 4 o’clock. David, Chris and I left Cathy, her husband and Cindy at the corner of Madison Avenue. Instead of staying with us, Chris was moving into the extra room reserved at the Drake. We returned to the hotel and he gathered up his things, preferring to make the move during this short, quiet time.
At four that afternoon, we all gathered again at the Drake. The men from Pepsi wanted to discuss some public memorial service with the family. The funeral on Friday was to be very small and private. The secretary was calling only people who were close to mother and making the other necessary arrangements for that day. There were not supposed to be any flowers, but of course bouquets were already arriving at the funeral home. There wasn’t any way to stop them.
The family decided together in a private meeting we had that it was only fitting there be some kind of memorial service for mother. There were hundreds of people that wanted to pay their respects in some way and at the moment, no such avenue of expression existed. Since we were unable to handle anything of such magnitude as a family, we were all grateful to the company for their extremely considerate gesture.
It was very strange to be called upon to make these kinds of decisions and none of us felt particularly comfortable, but since this particular decision was by consensus, we felt that we’d done the right thing.
The funeral was scheduled for Friday morning. It was not possible to arrange for a memorial service any faster than the following Tuesday, simply because there were too many people being contacted. Many of the Pepsi bottlers had become personal friends with mother. She had known them, their wives and families for many years. They had corresponded regularly and seen one another on many occasions other than company business.
I did not sleep well Thursday night. It was well after midnight when I finally fell into a light sleep, constantly awakened by the unfamiliar city noises outside our hotel window. When Friday morning dawned, I felt ill. I knew I wasn’t really sick, but it would take every bit of will power I had to get up and begin getting ready to leave for the funeral. If my husband hadn’t been with me, I don’t think I would have had the courage. More than at any other time in my life, all I wanted to do was stay in bed with the sheets over my head until it was all over and I could go home again. I hadn’t been able to eat more than a few mouthfuls of food since Tuesday afternoon. Everything just seemed to stick in my throat. I drank some coffee and had a few bites of an English muffin David had been considerate enough to get for us. I took a hot shower, washed my hair and was fully dressed half an hour before the limousine was due to arrive. I had on a simple black suit and white blouse.
It was turning into a warm day for this early in May and I was glad there were no signs of rain. That gray drizzle would have made everything so much more depressing and none of us needed to cope with any more than necessary right now.
Mother’s former New York secretary was riding with us in our limousine and she arrived at the hotel exactly on time. It had been many years since I’d seen her, but I’d always liked her very much. She was always absolutely straight and direct. It made you feel as though you could trust her.
After our greetings were over and I’d introduced her to my husband, David, she mentioned the date of the funeral for the first time. I stared at her for a moment. None of us had thought in terms of dates, we’d been dealing only with days when the decisions were being made. All we’d thought of was Friday when the funeral arrangements were planned. No one had stopped to consider that this particular Friday was indeed, Friday, May 13. Unlucky Friday the 13th! My God, I thought, that is very strange. Mother is being buried on Friday the 13th. I never thought about it and maybe nobody else did either. So … mother died on her wedding anniversary and is being buried on Friday the 13th. A strange set of coincidences. A very strange quirk of fate.
We were quite early arriving at the funeral home which was only a few blocks away from our hotel. We were shown into a private room just off the main chapel. There were flowers everywhere. Beautiful roses and other spring floral arrangements that took some of the faint musty odor away from these rooms. I didn’t feel quite so shaky now that I’d gotten even a little fresh air. I held onto David’s hand almost constantly. He was always right there next to me.
My sisters and Chris arrived just a few minutes later. We went in to look at the chapel by ourselves before the people started arriving. The urn was placed on a pedestal in the front of the chapel, surrounded by flowers. To the left of the urn was a small podium and a lectern where the Christian Science practitioner would read her service.
Now the people were beginning to arrive and we returned to the private waiting room. Some of the guests came in to see the family before the service, but most were being asked to wait until afterwards. It was very difficult to see the many, many faces that had been friends but whom I had not seen in so many years. I was deeply touched at their kindness and the outpouring of sympathy for the family. I looked at the faces of long-time friends I’d known since I was a little girl, the faces of former secretaries and others who had served mother as hairdressers, manicurists, publicity people. This was intended as a gathering of only the people closest to mother, but that was not universally the case. Most of the people were from New York, but some had flown in from as far away as Houston and Los Angeles.
It was getting more difficult every minute. My brother came over and stood with me for a while. He knew only a few of the faces, so I introduced him to everyone that came over to see me. Our cousin, Joan, arrived and stood with the rest of the family. Chris knew her and felt more comfortable now that he had someone to talk to. I sat down on one of the little chairs for a minute and David brought me a paper cup with water. He also handed me some extra Kleenex. The next person who came to speak with me was one of the women who had been a companion to mother for many, many years. She too had begun her friendship and years of service as a fan. She had spent weekends with mother for years and I’d known her well since I was just one year old. She had been one of the two people left with mother right up until her death. Her face was slightly swollen with crying over the last few days and she was still very distraught. She clutched my hands and held onto them tightly. I tried to say something to her, but there were no words for either of us. Then she leaned over and said, “Tina … mother loved you. You were her first born … she always said you were there when she needed you most … you brought her great joy. Remember that … Tina … no matter what happens … your mother loved you!” She could say no more and had to leave before she was totally overcome with grief.
Whatever faith I had in my turbulent relationship with mother, whatever disagreements we’d had over the years, the words of this woman struck at the depth of that pain and that love in a way that not even the news of mother’s death had done. I started shaking. Tears streamed down my face. I always knew that mother loved me … that she really loved me … that was exactly why the trouble we had with one another was so very difficult to understand. And eve
ry time she leveled her guns at me and tried to annihilate me, when the smoke cleared away and the noise died down … there I was, standing before her. I may have been wounded … I may have been in tatters, but by God … I was still standing! We had been joined in a terrible battle, lasting over 30 years.
The funeral service was brief. There is no formal burial service in Christian Science. The woman who had been mother’s last practitioner read from the bible and then the passages from Mary Baker Eddy. Those passages were so familiar. They reminded me instantly of all those Sundays of my childhood when mother and I would read the lessons aloud and then call Sorkie in New York. Those things from childhood that you may not think of for twenty years come back instantly like the smell of cookies or a favorite childhood song.
I looked at the woman reading in her clear voice that sounded so peaceful. From her face I looked at the urn sitting on its pedestal, so plain and nondescript. I noticed that lying across the base of the urn, there was one single long-stem red rose that had not been there earlier. It was clearly some very personal gesture of love.
I thought about seeing mother two days before, lying still with her hands folded, so terribly thin, so old and frail. She was gone now. She would leave an empty space for so many who had been faithful and served her until the very end. It is always painful to say a final goodbye. It is always hard to realize that’s the end of a life. But for mother, I felt a sense of relief. She was at peace now. I felt no guilt, there had been nothing left for me to do. I’d done the best I could.
The organ music began again and the service was over. The family formed a double receiving line in the small private room. The people began streaming through the door, taking our hands and saying what words of condolence they could manage. It was very strange how names I hadn’t thought of for several years came back the instant I saw the face again. It was strange how these ghosts of the past, all dressed in black, floated by as just a row of faces that I introduced to my husband. So many people. Each one reminded me of a specific time, a special place, an event in my life. My childhood, the years in New York with mother, our family trip to Europe with daddy … all the people that had been intertwined through our lives.
We left in the black limousines for the drive to Ferncliff where the urn was to be placed in a family crypt next to daddy. None of us had even seen where Daddy was buried, so in some strange way, this was almost like a double funeral.
It was a beautiful day. Once we left the decaying streets of East Harlem, everything was green and the sky was clear blue. It was warm, but the cars were air-conditioned. We managed to talk a little with the two secretaries who accompanied us in the lead car. I had a terrible headache which aspirin wasn’t going to help, at least not today. I looked out the windows at the lovely countryside and tried not to think about much of anything.
Ferncliff looks just like a beautiful park. There are large trees and green lawns and flowering shrubs everywhere. If you didn’t know better, you might think it would be a perfect place for a summer picnic.
Inside it was very cold. The marble floors echoed our footsteps against the marble walls. It was an ancient, hollow sound that accompanied our walk past the other crypts to the final destination. We’d brought one flower arrangement and the urn with us. Again, the Christian Science practitioner read from the bible. I stared at the marble crypt cover with the names and dates inscribed on it. The urn was placed inside the crypt and looked very small and alone inside the large space. Then this part of the funeral was over too. We all walked slowly back to the entrance and out into the sunlight again.
The family was going back to the Drake Hotel. The lawyer was going to read the will after the funeral.
We ordered some sandwiches and drinks upon our arrival at the hotel. The lawyer arrived a few minutes later and said he’d like to see my brother first and privately. They went to another room. The food arrived from room service but most of us took our drinks first. It was both a strained and a strange time. It was just family. My sister Cathy and her husband, sister Cindy, cousin Joan, Chris, my husband and myself. We’d never been in one room together before. My sisters barely knew their cousin. No one but my brother had met David before.
It wasn’t long before Chris reappeared. He looked very much the same as when he’d left. He took his drink off the large room service table. He said that the lawyer wanted to see David and me next, so we departed for the other room. As we walked down the hall, David held my hand as he had consistently done since we’d left Los Angeles four long days ago. We were both tired.
The lawyer asked us to sit down. He was holding a copy of the will in his hand. I sat nearest him. He flipped several pages over and then handed me the copy, with only the last page showing. There at the top of the final page of the will was one short paragraph which read:
“It is my intention to make no provision herein for my son Christopher or my daughter Christina for reasons which are well known to them.”
I stared at the words in utter disbelief. I looked up from the page to the lawyer’s face. He said only,” I’m very sorry, Tina.” I looked across the room at David, then I looked back down at the piece of paper.
With a sense of growing horror I realized that she had not made her peace with me before she died. My first impression was that these words she’d ordered put into her last will and testament were from over twenty years ago. They were the words from the memory of the woman who tried to have my brother left in Switzerland without a passport. These were the words of the woman who had me locked up in the convent school because of a Christmas card list. These were not the words of the woman who gave me my wedding reception at the “21” Club. These were not the words of the woman who asked me about her son in Viet Nam. These were not the words of the woman who knew about the rebuilding of my entire life over the past five years. They couldn’t be. These were the words of the demon lie reaching out of the mists of years gone by and buried with her in her grave. She had made no peace with the world. She had gone out of this life carrying all the years of hatred and cruelty and violent rage with her, clutching at the torment of it as though it were just yesterday.
I was speechless and stunned. Not because of the money. It would have been a nice gesture after all the years of miserable poverty she put me through, but it wasn’t the money. It was the insult. It was the lie. The inference that I had committed an unspeakable wrong. It was the humiliating innuendo left to be interpreted publicly. Guilty because she pronounces me so. Wrong because she says I am. Ostracized because she thinks I deserve punishment. And all for what? For just being alive and trying to do the best I can? How could one woman carry so much hatred with her for so many years? I would think that the venom would eat you alive. But then, maybe it did. Maybe it just did. The official cause of death was her heart, but the private conjecture was that she died of cancer. So maybe all that hatred and rage and venom finally did eat her alive and finally kill her.
I flipped the pages of the will back to the beginning and read the entire document silently. It wasn’t much. All personal property to Cathy. A miserly trust fund to both Cindy and Cathy. Each of them were given $77,000 spread out over the next twenty years. About $70,000 was divided among secretaries and other people who had served her over the years, basically to the people who had said “yes” and done her bidding faithfully. Nothing at all to her only two living blood relatives, her niece and her own aunt who was grandmother’s sister. She’d been sending the aunt a little money each month for years. Now the old woman was left destitute. The rest was split up between various charities. The date of the document was interesting. This will had been written in October 1976, only seven months before her death. I requested a copy.
The lawyer accompanied us back to the suite where the others were waiting. He spoke with my sisters separately.
And then it was all finished. There was nothing more except to attend the formal and more public memorial service next Tuesday. My sisters and I spoke only briefly. They w
ere returning to their respective home towns in the morning. We finished lunch, then I suggested that Chris might want to accompany David and me to a friends home a few blocks away. I didn’t think my brother really wanted to stay in the room for the rest of the day and he knew Al so it wouldn’t be like meeting a stranger. Chris went with us gladly.
We spent the afternoon with Al on his penthouse terrace. Al had shared so much of the rest of my life, that he was the perfect person to be with for the rest of this strange day. He didn’t ask any questions and we didn’t talk about the funeral or mother. We talked about everything else though. He was a truly wonderful friend. I didn’t know that day, but we wouldn’t see Al again after this trip to New York. He died two months later. (When I returned to Los Angeles, I wrote him a long letter, thanking him for his kindness to all of us. I said I knew it sounded silly, but I also wanted him to know how much his twenty years of friendship had meant to me and how much love we sent him. When I heard of his death just a few weeks later, I was eternally grateful that I’d told him what he had meant to me throughout the years.)
Tuesday afternoon the company sent a limousine to pick us up. Again we were accompanied by the two secretaries. There had been some problems getting appropriate people to speak at this memorial. Cesar Romero had topped the list, but he was unavailable. Mitchell Cox was unavailable. A number of other people were also not available. I had nothing to do with these arrangements other than submitting a short list of people I wished to invite. My brother’s little girl had become ill so Chris didn’t make the trip back in from Long Island. There was no reason for him to attend and go through the pain all over again. He’d paid his last respects privately and conducted himself like a gentleman. He did not deserve any more pain.
The Unitarian church was full when the services began. The people who spoke referred to the long successful career, the dedication and the greatness of the star. Anita Loos spoke first I had always admired her and we had been friends since I was young. She spoke beautifully. Geraldine Brooks went next and spoke of the work they’d done together. Strangely enough, she was also dead within a few months after this memorial service. Pearl Bailey spoke and then sang with a power and electricity that gave me chills. She sang her own mother’s favorite hymn: “He’ll Understand.” Cliff Robertson gave what was closest to a formal eulogy that was brief but well written. The minister then read the Desiderata which had been a favorite of mother’s and the service ended. Again, the family had a receiving line and again the ghosts paraded by, offering their condolences. Many of the people at this service were business associates and bottlers that I did not know. Pepsi had handled everything beautifully, tastefully and with fastidious care. The service was dignified, began exactly on time and was orderly throughout.
Mommie Dearest Page 55
