She makes me laugh; I love her. Her tiny hands fluttering. Tiny navy sneakers and almost inaudible breaths. The large, dark eyes, less impressive in size than in intensity, in their sudden changes and intelligence and humor. Their relentless fierce observation—she doesn’t miss a trick. And something in her voice. Her intonation. A creaky comical quality, a singsong that we all strain to hear, remember when she’s gone and imitate unconsciously when she’s near.
“Has anyone around here seen a toad?” she asks, rounding a corner, red-cheeked and panting, hot on a scavenger hunt. Wild child. Shy child. Original, outrageous, uncertain, un-self-conscious. Unaware of the magic she makes. She is generous and kind; beautiful at times; a bag lady at others. Loyal and loving but on her own terms. She captivates and fascinates me and I find myself following her dopily, devotedly. Observing her secretly from windows, smiling, delighting in her every move.
And I watch Justine with her father; how she worships him, how they rejoice in each other. The depth of love between them. How like each other they are—the shared sense of humor, the weird wisdom; it’s hard to tell where one leaves off and the other begins. Will it be as hard for you, Justine, as it was for me to find someone you love as much as your father? Will it take you as long to find your way?
Justine is showing a sharp and sudden interest in fairy tales. The kind about princesses. Where the prince comes to carry them away. “Candy, would you sing me that song?” she asks as I put her to bed. “You know, the one about the prince—”
I know the one about the prince. “You mean, ’Someday My Prince Will Come’?”
“Yes, that one. I love that song.”
How well I know. And I begin to sing in a voice not unlike Snow White’s.
… And how perfect that moment will be—
When the Prince of my Dreams comes to me … .
I break off abruptly. What am I doing?
“It’s just in fairy tales,” I tell her, trying to cover my tracks. “You know, there’s really no such thing as princes—not the kind on white horses. Not like the kind in the song.” Not like your father. Not like mine.
Epilogue
OUR apartment swells with Charlie McCarthys. You remember him. All around me are Charlie McCarthys: Charlie spoons, comics, cuff links, compacts. Charlies everywhere I turn—in enamel pins with movable mouths on my and my husband’s lapels, gold profiles on cigarette cases, salt and pepper shakers, tin toys, greeting cards—spilling out of every nook and cranny, my Charlie collection grows.
Once somewhat sheepish about this bizarre background, I am now thunderstruck by its amazing uniqueness, hopelessly enamored of its eccentricity. Infinitely grateful for my past. These days, I am grateful for any number of things. Too much of my life I spent ducking gifts—unable to be grateful, too embarrassed by the conviction that they were undeserved.
I am grateful for the hug I got to give my father just before he died.
I am grateful and proud of my family now—proud of the way we look out for each other, lessen each other’s burdens. I think of the love and pride I feel for my brother, the peace I’ve found in my mother’s presence. We are open now about needing each other—she needs a daughter and I need a Mom—and we take pleasure in telling each other of our affection, this time without counting. My mother has become my biggest booster; I, hers. I marvel at the capability with which she has assumed her place as head of the family. Will you look at my mother? I think. What a beautiful woman. What a knockout.
I am grateful for the miracle of my marriage: that we managed to find each other, that we get to begin our days together, share our lives together, respect each other, support each other and let the other be. To discover the joy of living with a lover and a friend. Sometimes, coming home at the end of a day, I worry that as in a dream it will all have disappeared. We take nothing for granted. “You know,” Louis said to me once, as we spoke about our luck, “the Aztecs were terrified each night when the sun set that it would not rise again the next morning. They were grateful for every dawn.”
It takes a long time to become a person. Longer than they tell you. Longer than I thought. I am grateful for my past; it has given me the present. I want to do well by the future.
Knock wood.
PHOTO CREDITS
Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reproduce photography in this book.
P. 10 Photo © Peter Martin; P. 25 Top and bottom, Collection Edgar Bergen; P. 31 Top and bottom, Collection Edgar Bergen (CBS); P. 32 Collection Edgar Bergen (CBS); P. 33 Collection Edgar Bergen; P. 40 Collection Edgar Bergen; P. 41 Collection Edgar Bergen; P. 44 Collection Edgar Bergen; P. 46 Photo © Peter Martin; P. 47 Photo © Peter Martin; P. 48 Collection Edgar Bergen (CBS photo by Pierce Grant); P. 49 Photo by Edgar Bergen; P. 58-59 Photo © Peter Martin; P. 60 Collection Edgar Bergen; P. 61 Collection Edgar Bergen; P. 66—67 Photo © Peter Martin; P. 69 Collection Edgar Bergen (CBS photo by Ben Polin); P. 72 Collection Edgar Bergen; P. 73 Collection Edgar Bergen; P. 81 Collection Edgar Bergen (CBS); P. 104 Collection Candice Bergen; P. 110 Collection Candice Bergen; P. 115 Photo by Candice Bergen; P. 119 Collection Candice Bergen (photo by Edgar Bergen); P. 124 Photo © Dan Budnik/Woodfin Camp & Associates; P. 128 Photo by Bert Stern. Courtesy Vogue, copyright © 1967 by The Conde Nast Publications, Inc.; P. 129 Courtesy Revlon; P. 142 Photo by Steve Schapiro; P. 146 Photo by Steve Schapiro; P. 154 Collection Edgar Bergen; P. 162 From the Twentieth-Century Fox release The Sand Pebbles,© 1966, Robert Wise Productions, Solar Productions, and Twentieth-Century Fox Film Corporation. All rights reserved; P. 175 Photo © Henry Grossman; P. 208 Photo by Steve Schapiro; P. 211 Photo © Ellen Graham; P. 213 Collection Candice Bergen; P. 223 From the motion picture Carnal Knowledge,© 1971 Avco Embassy Pictures Corp. and Icarus Productions, Inc., courtesy of Embassy Pictures; P. 274-5 Photos by Candice Bergen; P. 276 Collection Candice Bergen (top photo by Robert Duncan, bottom photo by Jehangir Gazdar); P. 277 Collection Candice Bergen (photo by Larry Goldman); P. 282 Permission courtesy ITC Entertainment; P. 283 © 1975 Vista Company (Columbia Pictures, Bite the Bullet); P. 287 Top and bottom: from the MGM release The Wind and the Lion,© 1975 Metro-Goldwyn-Mayer, Inc.; P. 319 Photo by Mary Ellen Mark/Lee Gross Associates Inc. © Mary Ellen Mark; P. 321 Photo by Mary Ellen Mark/Lee Gross Associates Inc. © Mary Ellen Mark; P. 322 Photo by Mary Ellen Mark/Lee Gross Associates Inc. © Mary Ellen Mark; P. 329 Top and bottom: copyright © 1979 by Century Associates. All rights reserved; P. 330 Eva Sereny/Sygma; P. 345 Photo by Mary Ellen Mark/Lee Gross Associates Inc. © Mary Ellen Mark; P. 346 Photo by Mary Ellen Mark/Lee Gross Associates Inc. © Mary Ellen Mark; P. 348 Photo by Mary Ellen Mark/Lee Gross Associates Inc. © Mary Ellen Mark.
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