The Men in My Life

by Patricia Bosworth

  “We are finding ourselves in the play!” Pepi exclaimed at one point. He became so enthused about what we were doing that he approached Kermit Bloomgarden, the producer of Diary, and asked him to send us on tour in The Seagull after Diary closed.

  Bloomgarden roared, “With an unknown? Never! But,” he added, “it’s an idea for you and Susie. First you play father and daughter, then lovers. Great box office.”

  Pepi was furious. He didn’t get along with Susie, so he wanted me to play Nina. From then on, he buttonholed almost every producer he knew and tried to pique their interest. There were no takers. However, Pepi didn’t give up and we’d keep reading the play to each other. By now he was calling me his “child mistress” and he’d given me a silver medallion engraved with “Pepi/Patti, Aug. 6, 1956,” the date we’d met at the White Barn. He began talking about taking me to Paris on his vacation from the show. “You have given me a new lease on life,” he’d say.

  OCCASIONALLY THERE WOULD be unpleasantness. One Sunday, just before a Mahler concert at Carnegie Hall, we ran into Tobias, Bart’s strange friend. He was on the sidewalk scalping tickets. I hadn’t seen him in three years. He looked as if he’d crawled out of a sewer—ragged jacket, uncombed hair, grinning to reveal discolored teeth.

  “Patti?” Sidling over, he stood so close I had to make introductions.

  “Joseph Schildkraut,” he murmured. “The Diary of Anne Frank . . .” Impressed, he leaned even closer, trying to shake hands, but Pepi moved away.

  “Darling girl,” he said sharply. “We must go.” And he marched off to the concert hall, me trotting behind him as Tobias singsonged, “Darling girl . . .”

  As soon as we sat down, the image of Bart in Garrison came back to me in a flash—memories of my sweet, sad, pure little brother, so skinny in jeans and a T-shirt, shooting at tin cans while his sinister friend watched and applauded.

  I gripped Pepi’s arm and began repeating the painful conversation I’d had with Tobias after Bart’s suicide. Pepi had heard the story innumerable times, so he hissed, “Be still!” His face took on a look of icy disapproval and he stared straight ahead.

  As the music surged over us, I fought back tears and tried to excuse his behavior. He was, after all, being very helpful to me. He’d spoken to Garson Kanin, who was in preparation for a new Broadway play, Small War on Murray Hill, a period piece about the American Revolution. “There’s a nice part in it for a rebel girl,” Pepi said. “I told Gar you’d be perfect for it.”

  The next thing I knew, I was auditioning for the show; Pepi coached me. As a matter of fact, earlier that day I’d learned I was being called back for a second audition. I should have been excited, but I wasn’t. Instead I felt anxious and forlorn; bumping into Tobias set me on edge.

  THE CONCERT SEEMED interminable; when it was over, we walked in silence to the Meurice. It was only three blocks away on West Fifty-Eighth Street, but it took forever because Pepi was very tired. As soon as he got in the door he began disrobing, tossing his clothes this way and that. I dutifully hung up his jacket and trousers and placed his shirt in the laundry hamper. As I did, I again began to speak hesitantly about Tobias.

  Pepi cut me off imperiously. He acted as if he were disgusted with me. “I will not listen to the story of your brother again. It is too terrible.” With that he got into bed and turned his back to me.

  I was so undone I ran into the bathroom and locked the door. Then I sat down on the toilet seat top and began communing, as I still did, with Bart.

  “Pepi is so unfeeling. Why am I with him?”

  Why are you with him? Bart repeated.

  “I don’t know.”

  Oh yes, you do. You are using him to get ahead in your career and it’s not your finest moment. I had never heard him speak so sharply.

  “Well, he is helping me audition . . .”

  When are you going to develop some self-esteem?

  “I’m so depressed.”

  Because you’re not being true to yourself.

  “What does that mean?”

  You should at least be with a guy closer to your own age.

  “I haven’t met anyone yet.”

  Yes, you have.

  “Who? Who?”

  You’ll know in a while. He seemed to be teasing me.

  “I miss you,” I blurted.

  What else is new?

  “Darling girl? What’s going on? I have to use the loo.” It was Pepi. I got up from the toilet and came back into the bedroom.

  “Make us some tea,” Pepi ordered. “Make us some tea and then I’ll hold you in my arms.”

  AFTER BEING CALLED back three times to audition for Small War on Murray Hill, the new play Gar Kanin was directing, I won the role of the ingenue lead. I had stiff competition from dozens of actresses much better known than me. Pepi had bought me an expensive suit from Bergdorf’s to audition in and he’d helped me develop an attitude for the part. “She’s a patriot who has strong feelings about the American Revolution. Make your entrance like a soldier.” And I did. I marched across the stage of the Barrymore Theatre with a purpose, an action.

  The scene called for me to state my political beliefs. I could hear my voice ringing out across the aisles and up into the last row of the balcony. The experience of this particular audition was quite thrilling. I knew I’d been projecting and inhabiting the character. I knew I’d been good, maybe even inspired. When I told Pepi, he embraced me, and with more emotion than I’d ever heard him express, he told me this was a once-in-a-lifetime feeling. “Treasure it, darling girl—it rarely happens when you know you are good. It rarely happens.”

  I WAS BURSTING to tell Daddy the news. He was being released from Silver Hill the following day. I could hardly contain myself, but I decided to wait until we’d left the rehab.

  I came up to help him pack. When I arrived, I found my father subdued, dressed in faded coveralls—the kind of outfit he’d worn at Aptos when he was working in the garden. He hadn’t shaved and needed a haircut, but his eyes were clear, his expression focused. We were in his sparsely furnished room. There were books and newspapers by the bed, yellow legal pads on his desk filled with writing. He was starting a memoir, My Life as a Liberal, for Simon & Schuster.

  “How far along are you?” I asked.

  “Not very far.” He turned and went to the closet, pulling out a small, polished wooden bench. Picking it up in his arms, he handed it to me. “Made this for you in woodwork shop.” He grinned. “Good therapy.” I felt like crying. “I may have a talent for this. If I can’t practice law anymore, I could become a carpenter.”

  “What makes you think you won’t practice law?”

  “The law is very different now. It’s all about money and connections. When I started, I was excited about a cause I could defend or a person who was in desperate need of help.”

  I knew he missed his radical past. I’d seen some of the clients he’d helped pro bono; a few of them even trekked up to Silver Hill to visit—a former Chinese alien, an old lefty professor down on his luck.

  We headed outside. A couple of the nurses ran after Daddy; one of them hugged him. He was very well liked. Then the doctor who’d treated him came over to shake his hand.

  We put the bags and the wooden bench into the trunk of the Carey Cadillac and then we were off. As soon as we were speeding over to the highway, Daddy let out a groan. “Christ, I hated being penned in like that.”

  “But you’re not drinking anymore or taking pills.”

  He nodded.

  “Will it last, Daddy? Are you cured?”

  He rolled his eyes and shrugged.

  “Daddy!”

  “Baby, stop asking so many questions. I’m in the world again and I’m grateful.” He stared out the window. It was a beautiful crisp November day.

  We rode in silence for a while and then he took my hand. “What’s been happening in your life?” he demanded. “I want to know.”

  So I told him about Pepi and the audi
tion all in a rush. He interrupted with, “Isn’t he that old geezer Lenny saw you holding hands with at the Tea Room?”

  “He’s not an old geezer—he’s the most wonderful man. He found me a better agent and I just got this amazing part in a big new Broadway show.”

  Daddy didn’t seem impressed.

  “Pepi introduced me to Garson Kanin, who’s directing Small War.”

  “Pepi? Funny name for a guy.”

  “He is different from any man I’ve ever known.”

  “How so?”

  “He appreciates me. He believes in my talent. He cares for me and he’s an artist.”

  “Isn’t he around my age?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “Is this serious, baby?”

  “We do spend quite a bit of time together. He’s trying to get a production of The Seagull for us to do.”

  “Isn’t he married?”

  “I think he’s going to ask his wife for a divorce; he wants to take me to Paris.”

  “I see.”

  “He doesn’t love his wife,” I hurried on. “They hardly ever see each other.”

  “Hmm.” My father lit a cigarette. He seemed deep in thought.

  The intense emotional ties that bound me to Daddy felt like they were going to break. He’s trying to wake me up to the reality of Pepi. He won’t say that, but The Seagull is a fantasy. The Paris trip won’t happen. My life with Pepi is a dream.

  We didn’t speak to each other for the rest of the ride back to Manhattan. Anxiety overwhelmed me.

  When we reached my parents’ home, Daddy said briskly that he was going to Hollywood for about ten days—“to make a few speeches and earn a few bucks.” He added that when he got back, I should come over to dinner. He didn’t kiss me good-bye.

  TEN DAYS LATER I came to dinner expecting I knew not what. Mama had said some friends were over to celebrate “Daddy’s return to civilization.” When I entered the living room I saw a few familiar faces—playwright Marc Connelly, cartoonist Abner Dean, the designer Pauline Trigère and her Argentine lover—and then I saw Pepi sitting rather uncomfortably on a couch next to a chic middle-aged woman, her reddish hair in a chignon.

  Daddy called out his usual greeting. “Hey, baby, give your old man a kiss!” I remained in the doorway until he pulled me over to Pepi. “Darling, this is Marie Schildkraut and her husband, Joseph. I ran into Marie after I made a speech in Beverly Hills—she said she was thinking of coming to New York to surprise—is it Peepee?” He laughed. “Excuse me, I meant Pepi . . . I said, ‘Why don’t you come over to dinner?’ and she agreed.”

  I shook hands with both Schildkrauts.

  “What a lovely-looking girl,” Marie murmured, smiling.

  Somehow I got through that dinner. Daddy sat at one end of the table, Pepi at the other. I watched the two most important men in my life at the time plying each other with questions and telling anecdotes. Were they showing off for me? The other guests seemed entranced, but I’d heard the stories before—Pepi’s description of how he’d shaved his head for Diary and “suddenly I was Otto Frank,” and Daddy waxing sentimental about growing up in Sacramento with Earl Warren as a high school classmate . . . but then he stopped. “Enough about me.” And he directed his attention at Marie Schildkraut.

  “What do you plan on doing after Diary closes?” he asked, and she immediately answered, “Pepi is going to take me to Paris. It’s my favorite city.”

  I made excuses as coffee was being served. I had a terrible headache, I said. Mama looked puzzled. I guessed Daddy hadn’t told her of my involvement with Pepi.

  WHEN I GOT home, the phone was ringing. I let it ring for a while. I knew it was Pepi.

  I finally picked it up. He was calling from a pay phone. “Marie is at the hotel. I said I had to go to the drugstore. Oh, darling girl, I am so sorry!” I couldn’t speak, so he rambled on, “Marie surprised me. I had no idea she was coming. She appeared at the Meurice; she’d met your father at this benefit. She’s always admired him . . . She introduced herself, they got to talking . . . It was your father’s idea to invite us to dinner.”

  “Daddy knows we’ve been seeing each other.”

  “Oh.”

  “You were never going to tell your wife about me, were you?”

  “Oh, yes. Yes, I was.”

  “God, you’re a lousy actor, Pepi.”

  “That hurts.”

  “And our trip to Paris?”

  “I still want to take you to Paris,” he murmured faintly.

  “I better hang up.”

  “Wait, darling girl . . . Marie is going back to Beverly Hills in a few days. Then we can be together again. We can read The Seagull . . . We can hold each other close.”

  I felt slightly ill. He was trying to reach out, but he didn’t know how. He didn’t understand me and I didn’t understand him either. It almost felt like a Chekhov play, except it wasn’t. I hung up and we never saw each other again.

  IT TOOK ME a while to recover. I put away the chic little suit from Bergdorf’s and returned to my uniform of blue jeans and old sweaters. I rushed back to my friends who were my own age that I’d been neglecting. Nobody asked any questions, but I realized that everybody had been aware of Pepi and me as a couple.

  The first people I saw were Marcia and Gene, now ensconced in their ramshackle farm in New Jersey. I began spending time with my Studio buddies, Geoffrey Horne and Marty and Susie and Lils. I’d missed hearing their stories; I wanted to share in their lives again.

  I wrote some of my sprawling novel. I saw Rib on and off. But I missed Pepi terribly. I even had the urge to call him because for close to four months we’d been enmeshed in each other’s lives even if we hadn’t seen each other every day. For better or worse he’d propelled me to a different level in my career. But what troubled me most, and continued to for decades to come, was my father’s behavior. He had cruelly interfered with my life. By giving that silly dinner party he’d destroyed my relationship with Pepi. Granted, it was probably doomed anyway, but Daddy had been out of line. I was sure he’d done it deliberately, but I never challenged him. Between us it was as if Pepi hadn’t existed.

  I never quite trusted my father again, although I still adored him. We behaved the same toward each other. He’d say, “Hey, baby, give your old man a kiss,” and we’d embrace. He’d ask me, “What’s happening, baby?” and I’d tell him, hearing my voice go childish and light. I was still acting like Daddy’s girl whenever I was with him, but I was starting not to feel like one anymore.

  Chapter Seventeen

  I THREW MYSELF INTO my work on Small War on Murray Hill. I memorized my lines and posed for pictures with the rest of the cast. Small War was a classy stylish fantasy that would never be done on Broadway today, and even back then it couldn’t last, but it was quite an amazing experience.

  I kept detailed notes in my journal: “Show is rehearsing at the New Amsterdam Roof,” I wrote. “It’s a murky old theatre perched on the top of an office building overlooking Times Square. During the 1920s it was the home of the Ziegfeld Follies. Since then many hit shows have rehearsed here, like Streetcar. Starting out at the New Amsterdam is supposed to bring luck to a production.

  “Because Small War is set during the American Revolution, our director, Gar Kanin, lectures constantly about George Washington and the Declaration of Independence in between blocking the show. The producers are spending a fortune to make sure everything is authentic, right down to elaborate Boris Aronson sets and lavish costumes by Irene Sharaff.

  “I privately think we’re going to need a lot of luck; the material is slight, even though the play was written by Robert Sherwood, who won four Pulitzers and is the author of one of Daddy’s favorite books, Roosevelt and Hopkins. Gar continues to be in high spirits, even after the deaths of two older actors in the cast and Sherwood himself in November. ‘Three guys croak in a show, it’s a bad omen,’ the stage manager told me.

  “But being in the show take
s my mind off my troubles. I love going to Irene Sharaff’s atelier to be fitted for my costumes, which are absolutely sumptuous, all silks and satins and linens; I love learning how to walk around in a petticoat and funny buckled shoes. Every day I lunch with different members of the cast. One day I had Caesar salad at Sardi’s with Jan Sterling, the bosomy star of the show. We play sisters. After we were photographed by the New York Times, I found out she’s a member of the Actors Studio too.

  “Next day hamburgers at Downey’s with Michael Lewis, the gloomy son of novelist Sinclair Lewis; Warner LeRoy, very funny and manic (his father Mervyn produced The Wizard of Oz); and last but not least, the infinitely charming Danny Massey (son of Raymond, who’s best known for his portrayal of Lincoln). Gar has loaded the production down with as many names as possible to draw attention to the play, but I’m not sure anything will help. Gar remains enthusiastic, even when the show got royally panned in Boston. He invited everybody for drinks at the Ritz, and Thornton Wilder, the author of Our Town, joined us and proceeded to speak about theatre and art and the wonder and necessity of it all, as well as the importance of failure. Walking back to the Colonial Theatre with Danny Massey that night, we agreed we’d been inspired.”

  I WAS ESPECIALLY taken with Danny; I loved acting with him onstage. We had several spirited scenes together (which began when he climbed in a window and started flirting with me). He had a kind of grasshopper lightness when he moved. He’d inherited a dry buoyant charm from his godfather, Noël Coward, who’d raised him. Later during the Boston run I was lucky enough to spend an evening with Coward in Danny’s dressing room, where he regaled us with tales of being injected with sheep’s urine in Switzerland “to keep me young.”

  The legendary English playwright-composer-director-actor did everything with wit and flamboyance. To be with him was invigorating and exhausting. Danny said later, “When you’re with Uncle Noël, you know he has star quality. It’s the lodestone of his life.”