Bogart

by Stephen Humphrey Bogart

  In the morning Dad seemed a little better, as he usually did when day arrived. It was a Sunday, and Mother took Leslie and me to Sunday school at the All Saints Episcopal Church. When she came back she and Dad talked for a while and when she left to pick us up at Sunday school he said to her, “Good-bye, kid.” These were his last words to her, and later the press would make something of it, filling the words with meaning, as if Bogie knew they were the last words. But my mother says no, he said, “Good-bye, kid,” just the way he always said it.

  When Mother brought us home from Sunday school my father was in a coma.

  Dr. Brandsma came over. He told my mother that Bogie could come out of the coma, but that, more likely, this was the end. “He has fought harder than anyone,” Brandsma told her. “He lived longer than we had a right to expect. He should have died four months ago, but he didn’t because his will was so strong.”

  My mother was shaking. “What about Steve?” she said. “How do you tell an eight-year-old boy that his father is dying?” She asked Brandsma if he would talk to me.

  Then she called me into the butternut room. “Steve, Dr. Brandsma wants to talk to you.”

  Mother asked me to sit. I must have known that something bad was going to happen because I remember sitting on the edge of the chair. Brandsma sat across from me.

  “Stephen,” he said, “you know your daddy has been very sick.”

  “Yes.”

  “And I’ve been trying everything I could to make him better,” the doctor said. “But that’s not enough.”

  I nodded.

  “Stephen, your dad is sleeping now. He may go into a deeper sleep. And he might not wake up. Do you know what I’m trying to say to you?”

  I nodded. My mother had her arm around me. “Stephen, do you understand what the doctor is saying?”

  I ran out of the room.

  Later my mother found me. “Daddy is in a deep sleep,” she said. “Come and see him.” We walked into that room, with its awful smell of sickness and decay. We sat on the bed. Mother was more frightened than me. I moved closer. We both took Bogie’s hand, and sat there not talking to each other, just thinking our own thoughts, feeling our own feelings. After a moment I leaned over and kissed my father’s cheek. Mother did the same.

  Later that day she found me again in the bedroom, standing by my sleeping father. She asked me why I had come back. “Because I wanted to,” I said.

  That’s what happened. I know from talking to my mother and from my own small fragments of memories. But for most of my life I could only guess at what I felt: fear, anger, loss. I could recall only some of the scene, as if I had glimpsed it quickly from a safe hiding place. And I recalled none of the feelings. Lately, they have been returning—glimpses, whispers, sensations of regret so poignantly felt that I have no words to describe them.

  That night the nurse came to my mother. “Mrs. Bogart,” she said, “Mr. Bogart has died.” My mother sobbed all through the night. Because of their game, their pretense that it was all a passing virus, their insistence that Bogie was always on the road back to good health, Mom had had to hold so much in. And now, with him gone, all those trapped emotions came pouring out for her. She could let herself feel what she had been trying not to feel for months. I sometimes wonder if these memories I am having in bits and pieces are enough, or if I also need to have such a moment.

  At dawn she came into my room.

  “Darling, I’m sorry to have to tell you that your father died early this morning.”

  She says I lay there, rubbing my eyes with my fists. My eyes were wet and red, she says, but I did not cry.

  “Is he in heaven?” I asked.

  “Yes, he’s in heaven,” she said. “And he is watching over us, so you must be brave and strong. He was so proud of you. And he loved you very much.”

  Then she got Leslie and brought her in and told her. I do remember that Leslie kept playing while Mother told her, and because I was feeling sad while Leslie was still playing, I somehow thought that made me better than Leslie. Of course, Leslie kept playing. She was only four years old.

  So I lost my father when I was eight, and within a year I would lose my home, my school, and my friends. All of those losses that I remember would be troubling, of course. But something happened during those final weeks that has troubled me even more all of my life. I was in my father’s room one day. I don’t know if I was talking to him or just playing there. And I don’t know whether it was days before he died, or weeks before he died. But after I was gone, my father told my mother not to let me or Leslie in there anymore.

  I’m forty-five now and I can perhaps gather some of what my father must have felt, the emotions that would make him say such a thing. The pain of having his children see him so impotent, so small and pathetic, must have been unbearable. He must have cried to think he would never see us grow up. It must have been more excruciating than the cancer for Bogie to look at his little boy and his little girl playing in the sunlight that streamed through his bedroom window, knowing that the light would go out much too soon.

  But that’s big Steve Bogart sizing things up with his adult brain. I was eight years old. And what I have held on to most of my life is that feeling of not being allowed to see him, of being somehow left out, of being rejected by my father during his final days. The memory of that feeling has stayed with me always. Perhaps it explains, in part, why until now I have been unwilling to talk about my father’s life.

  *

  Mother and I stand outside of the house. We stare into the swimming pool.

  “It wasn’t here when we moved in,” she explains. “I had it installed for you kids.”

  She points to the spot where Leslie and I left our small footprints in the cement four decades ago. Both somewhat stunned by our memories, we stand by the edge of the glistening water, as if our own feet are anchored in the cement. Our visit to the Mapleton Drive house is over, but we are not quite ready to leave. There is a slight breeze and I hear the soft play of the water as it slaps against the edges of the swimming pool. I replay a memory that I have replayed many times.

  I am with my father on the boat, sailing to Catalina. Then I am on the shore. My father is offshore, on the boat. He is sending Pete in the skiff to pick me up. But I don’t want to be picked up. I want to swim out to Dad, show him I can swim well. I wave to him. “I’ll swim to you, “I shout. He shouts something to Pete, telling Pete to let me swim but to keep an eye on me. I begin to swim.

  The water is cold around me and the surface bobs at me, now and then splashing my face. I keep my mouth closed, afraid of swallowing water. I kick my feet the way I’ve been taught. My arms swing forward wildly, pulling me along through the water. I can swim good, I think.

  My father is standing on the foredeck watching me. He holds his hands to the brim of his fisherman’s cap, to keep the sun out of his eyes. He is rooting me on as if it is a race and I am his favorite. “Come on, Steve, my boy!” I keep swimming. I want to get there. I don’t want to fail. I swim onward, but the boat seems farther away than it did when I began. I begin to feel a burning in my chest. I am tired, but I am determined, and I flail my arms forward, wildly scooping the water behind me. Dad is cheering me on. The Santana is bobbing in the water. “Good going, Steve,” my father is shouting. Pete stays near me in the skiff. I keep swimming. Finally, the boat is getting closer. I’m going to make it, I think. I swim harder, I breathe faster. I’m going to make it. I’m feeling so good. Almost there, I find one last burst of energy, and rip through the remaining water. I did it, I think, I swam to the boat. I begin to climb the ladder. My father, excited, dashes over to help me aboard. I get to the top rung. He lifts me in his arms and swings me around. He is smiling. “Great going, kid,” he says. “I’m so proud of you. “

  The memories are coming rapidly now, and as the Santana of my memory sails away, and Mother and I begin, at last, to leave the house I am suddenly aware of another memory, an incident that happened just
a few weeks before this trip to California.

  I am at home, looking at videos of old home movies. There is my father swinging me upside down in the yard. There is Leslie and me, splashing in the pool. There is my dog Harvey loping across the lawn. There is the young Bacall with her Bogie. Suddenly a picture of me as an adult has flashed on the screen. I am confused.

  “How did a picture of me get on this tape?” I say to Barbara.

  She looks at me strangely. “Steve,” she says, “that’s not you. That’s your father.”

  I look again. Barbara is right. For the first time I am seeing myself completely in my father’s face. More and more lately I have been seeing pieces of my father in me. I have become preoccupied with questions that have never before bothered me. Am I my father’s son? How are we alike? How are we different?

  Now, when my mother and I walk around to the front of the Mapleton Drive house the morning seems very bright, like the mornings of my childhood. The smell of the grass and the trees rush into me as if for the first time. I feel as if I have come to the end of two journeys that all men must take, one way or the other. One journey, I began a decade ago when my wife told me, “Find out about your father.” The other, a journey of self-knowledge, which can last a lifetime, or a year, or even just the time it takes to walk through a house you once lived in.

  Your search is over, I think. The words just come to me suddenly, as if carried on the breeze. Though I have spent most of my life running away from the shadow of my father, I have come now to see what Barbara has told me, that just because I don’t want to live life as “Bogie’s son,” I don’t have to ignore him. “Bogie or not, he was still your father,” she has told me.

  If I didn’t know it before, I know it now, standing in the yard of my childhood home, that this search is all about looking at my own life and at my father’s and trying to figure out what, if anything, they have to do with each other. I feel as if I have, in a very real sense, come home. I want to embrace my father, not run from him. I know now that the words will come easier. Not just the words I write about my father, but also the words I speak to my children when they ask about their grandfather, the words I speak to strangers when they say, “So you’re Bogie’s boy, huh?” My mother and I are quiet with each other as we drive away from the Mapleton Drive house that morning. I love her. She is still my mother, and even when she is driving my sister and me nuts, she is loving us. We are on our way to visit some more old friends of Humphrey Bogart. I am anxious to see these people, to ask more questions. But I am anxious, too, to be done with this trip, and to get on a plane back to my home in New Jersey. I miss my kids.

  *

  FILMOGRAPHY

  BROADWAY’S LIKE THAT. (Short). 1930. Vitaphone Corporation. Director: Murray Roth. With Ruth Etting, Joan Blondell.

  A DEVIL WITH WOMEN. 1930. Fox. Director: Irving Cummings. With Victor McLaglen, Mona Maris, Luana Alcaniz, Michael Vavitch.

  UP THE RIVER. 1930. Fox. Director: John Ford. With Spencer Tracy, Claire Luce, Warren Hymer, William Collier, Sr., Joan Marie Lawes, George MacFarlane, Gaylord Pendleton, Sharon Lynn.

  BODY AND SOUL. 1930. Fox. Director: Alfred Santell. With Charles Farrell, Elissa Landi, Myrna Loy, Donald Dillaway, Craufurd Kent, Pat Somerset, Ian MacLaren, Dennis D’Auburn.

  BAD SISTER. 1931. Universal. Director: Hobart Henley. With Conrad Nagel, Sidney Fox, Bette Davis, ZaSu Pitts, Slim Summerville, Charles Winninger, Emma Dunn, Bert Roach.

  WOMEN OF ALL NATIONS. 1931. Fox. Director: Raoul Walsh. With Victor McLaglen, Edmund Lowe, Greta Nissen, El Brendel, Fifi Dorsay, Marjorie White, T. Roy Barnes, Bela Lugosi.

  A HOLY TERROR. 1931. Fox. Director: Irving Cummings. With George O’Brien, Sally Eilers, Rita LaRoy, James Kirkwood, Robert Warwick, Richard Tucker, Stanley Fields.

  LOVE AFFAIR. 1932. Columbia. Director: Thornton Freeland. With Dorothy MacKaill, Jack Kennedy, Barbara Leonard.

  BIG CITY BLUES. 1932. Warner Brothers. Director: Mervyn LeRoy. With Joan Blondell, Eric Linden, Inez Courtney, Evalyn Knapp, Guy Kibbee, Lyle Talbot, Gloria Shea, Walter Catlett, Jobyna Howland.

  THREE ON A MATCH. 1932. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: Mervyn LeRoy. With Joan Blondell, Warren William, Ann Dvorak, Bette Davis, Lyle Talbot, Patricia Ellis, Glenda Farrell, Frankie Darro, Edward Arnold.

  MIDNIGHT. 1934. All-Star/Universal. Director: Chester Erskine. With Sidney Fox, O. P. Heggie, Henry Hull, Margaret Wycherly, Lynne Overman, Katherine Wilson, Richard Whorf, Henry O’Neill.

  THE PETRIFIED FOREST. 1936. Warner Brothers. Director: Archie Mayo. With Leslie Howard, Bette Davis, Genevieve Tobin, Dick Foran, Joseph Sawyer, Porter Hall, Charley Grapewin, Paul Harvey, Eddie Acuff, Adrian Morris, Nina Campana, Slim Thompson.

  BULLETS OR BALLOTS. 1936. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: William Keighley. With Edward G. Robinson, Joan Blondell, Barton MacLane, Frank McHugh, Joseph King, Richard Purcell.

  TWO AGAINST THE WORLD. (GB: THE CASE OF MRS PEMBROOK). 1936. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: William McGann. With Beverly Roberts, Helen MacKellar, Carlyle Moore, Jr., Henry O’Neill, Linda Perry, Virginia Brissac, Claire Dodd.

  CHINA CLIPPER. 1936. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: Ray Enright. With Pat O’Brien, Beverly Roberts, Ross Alexander, Marie Wilson, Henry B. Walthall, Joseph Crehan, Joseph King.

  ISLE OF FURY. 1936. Warner Brothers. Director: Frank McDonald. With Margaret Lindsay, Donald Woods, Paul Graetz, Gordon Hart, E. E. Clive.

  BLACK LEGION. 1937. Warner Brothers. Director: Archie Mayo. With Dick Foran, Erin O’Brien-Moore, Ann Sheridan, Robert Barrat, Helen Flint, Joseph Sawyer, Addison Richards, Eddie Acuff, Clifford Soubier, Dickie Jones, Henry Brandon.

  THE GREAT O’MALLEY. 1937. Warner Brothers. Director: William Dieterle. With Pat O’Brien, Sybil Jason, Ann Sheridan, Frieda Inescort, Donald Crisp, Henry O’Neill, Craig Reynolds, Gordon Hart.

  MARKED WOMAN. 1937. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: Lloyd Bacon. With Bette Davis, Lola Lane, Isabel Jewell, Eduardo Ciannelli, Rosalind Marquis, Mayo Methot, Jane Bryan, Allen Jenkins.

  KID GALAHAD. 1937. Warner Brothers. Director: Michael Curtiz. With Edward G. Robinson, Bette Davis, Wayne Morris, Jane Bryan, Harry Carey, William Haade, Soledad Cunningham, Veda Ann Borg, Ben Welden.

  SAN QUENTIN. 1937. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: Lloyd Bacon. With Pat O’Brien, Ann Sheridan, Barton MacLane, Joseph Sawyer, Veda Ann Borg, James Robbins, Marc Lawrence, Joseph King.

  DEAD END. 1937. Sam Goldwyn/United Artists. Director: William Wyler. With Sylvia Sidney, Joel McCrea, Wendy Barrie, Claire Trevor, Allen Jenkins, Marjorie Main, Billy Halop, Huntz Hall, Bobby Jordan, Leo Gorcey, Gabriel Dell, Bernard Punsley, Ward Bond.

  STANDIN. 1937. Walter Wanger/United Artists. Director: Tay Garnett. With Leslie Howard, Joan Blondell, Alan Mowbray, Maria Shelton, C. Henry Gordon, Jack Carson.

  SWING YOUR LADY. 1938. Warner Brothers. Director: Ray Enright. With Frank McHugh, Louise Fazenda, Nat Pendleton, Penny Singleton, Allen Jenkins, Ronald Reagan, Leon Weaver, Frank Weaver, Sue Moore.

  CRIME SCHOOL. 1938. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: Lewis Seiler. With Gale Page, Billy Halop, Bobby Jordan, Huntz Hall, Leo Gorcey, Bernard Punsley, Gabriel Dell, Charles Trowbridge.

  MEN ARE SUCH FOOLS. 1938. Warner Brothers. Director: Busby Berkeley. With Priscilla Lane, Wayne Morris, Hugh Herbert, Penny Singleton.

  THE AMAZING DOCTOR CLITTERHOUSE. 1938. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: Anatole Litvak. With Edward G. Robinson, Claire Trevor, Allen Jenkins, Donald Crisp, Gale Page, Maxie Rosenbloom, John Litel.

  RACKET BUSTERS. 1938. Warner Brothers–Cosmopolitan. Director: Lloyd Bacon. With George Brent, Gloria Dickson, Allen Jenkins, Walter Abel, Henry O’Neill, Penny Singleton.

  ANGELS WITH DIRTY FACES. 1938. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: Michael Curtiz. With James Cagney, Pat O’Brien, Ann Sheridan, George Bancroft, Billy Halop, Bobby Jordan, Leo Gorcey, Gabriel Dell, Huntz Hall, Bernard Punsley
, Joseph Downing, Edward Pawley.

  KING OF THE UNDERWORLD. 1939. Warner Brothers. Director: Lewis Seiler. With Kay Francis, James Stephenson, John Eldredge, Jessie Busley.

  THE OKLAHOMA KID. 1939. Warner Brothers. Director: Lloyd Bacon. With James Cagney, Rosemary Lane, Donald Crisp, Harvey Stephens, Hugh Sothern, Charles Middleton, Edward Pawley, Ward Bond.

  DARK VICTORY. 1939. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: Edmund Goulding. With Bette Davis, George Brent, Geraldine Fitzgerald, Ronald Reagan, Henry Travers, Cora Witherspoon, Dorothy Peterson.

  YOU CAN’T GET AWAY WITH MURDER. 1939. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: Lewis Seiler. With Billy Halop, Gale Page, John Litel, Henry Travers, Harvey Stephens, Harold Huber, Joseph Sawyer.

  THE ROARING TWENTIES. 1939. Warner Brothers–First National. Director: Raoul Walsh. With James Cagney, Priscilla Lane, Gladys George, Jeffrey Lynn, Frank McHugh, Paul Kelly, Elisabeth Risdon, Joseph Sawyer.

  THE RETURN OF DOCTOR X. 1939. First National–Warner Brothers. Director: Vincent Sherman. With Wayne Morris, Rosemary Lane, Dennis Morgan, John Litel, Lya Lys, Huntz Hall, Charles Wilson, Vera Lewis.

  INVISIBLE STRIPES. 1939. Warner Brothers–First National. Director: Lloyd Bacon. With George Raft, Jane Bryan, William Holden, Flora Robson, Paul Kelly, Lee Patrick, Henry O’Neill, Marc Lawrence, Moroni Olsen, Tully Marshall.

  VIRGINIA CITY. 1940. Warner Brothers–First National. Director: Michael Curtiz. With Errol Flynn, Miriam Hopkins, Randolph Scott, Frank McHugh, Alan Hale, Guinn Williams, Douglass Dumbrille, John Litel.

  IT ALL CAME TRUE. 1940. Warner Brothers–First National. Director: Lewis Seiler. With Ann Sheridan, Jeffrey Lynn, ZaSu Pitts, Una O’Connor, Jessie Busley, John Litel, Grant Mitchell, Felix Bressart.