immensely private person who could count on the fingers of one hand the people that she would open up to. There were so damn few she was willing to let in, for whatever reason. You could sit and scream and beg Bridget to tell you what the matter was, and no matter how much she loved you, she wouldn’t tell you unless she felt like telling you, and that was that.”
When Mother died, I only saw Bridget cry once—right after the memorial service in Greenwich when Kenneth decided to read Mother’s will to the three of us. It was the first time since Bridget had reinstated herself at Riggs that she had seen him. He took us to a small bedroom in the house while friends gathered in the living room and drank coffee. We sat in a row on the bed, Bridget, as stiff as tightly strung wire, between Bill and me. Suddenly tears were streaming down her cheeks but she did not move or make a sound. Bill and I edged closer to her and pressed our shoulders against hers. Kenneth obliviously went on reading the will.
Bill Francisco:
“What I remember most was her humor. She had a wonderful sense of humor. That’s what began the relationship and that’s what was always the best part of it
.
“She was a very two-sided girl. There was this wonderful childlike side which was legitimate, and there was also that of a woman
.
And I think one of the things that was wrong with the family relationship was a refusal to see the woman’s side. I mean she was a capable, bright lady, and when we first began dating, I didn’t feel I was dating a waif. Occasionally I would be aware of this other side—more after her death—how Logan and all those people felt about her, as if she was some sort of star child, strange little creature, fairy child. Which was great, but there was this other side. When your mother died—the late news came on: ‘Margaret Sullavan died’—I thought, oh, my God, so I called Leland and said ‘How is Bridget?’ And we were both worried that she was going to fall apart, that we shouldn’t leave her alone, so I came down to New York the next morning. She was shaken, obviously, but what she wanted to do was go to church and say a prayer for her mother. I convinced Leland it was all right. We left his place at the Carlyle and went back to her apartment so she could get some clothes. There was a little church across the street, and she said, ‘I have to go there, do you mind?’ So I stayed in the apartment; she put on a black kerchief, went off to the church, was back in fifteen minutes, no scene. She just wanted to have her moment. It was that side of her that I remember best.”
In the spring of that year, 1960, my brother and Marilla got married shortly on the heels of Father and Pamela, who had been in Nevada for six weeks awaiting his final divorce papers from Nancy Hayward. Nan and Father had been married for ten years. We children were sorry to see her go.
It was damp and chilly in Topeka. Bridget and I met Father and Pamela, fresh from Nevada, at the airport and we set up headquarters in the Holiday Inn. After a rehearsal of the wedding ceremony in a drafty Methodist church paneled in dark plywood with a crucifix suspended overhead, Father took everyone to dinner at a nearby steakhouse. All the women except Pamela, Bridget, and me wore their hair in sprayed beehives. Bill was in uniform, having just enlisted. Dinner was an uneasy success.
The next day, Bridget and I, who were sharing a room, were bored to distraction. It was gray and cold outside and all we had brought were summer dresses. Besides, the Holiday Inn was in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly the door to our room burst open and there stood Peter Fonda, whom we hadn’t seen in five or six years. Not only were we startled by his precipitous reappearance in our lives but also by the evidence that he was no longer fourteen yearsold. He notified us excitedly that he had been sitting in his aunt’s house in Omaha, Nebraska, a few hours earlier, minding his
When Mother died, I only saw Bridget cry once—right after the memorial service in Greenwich when Kenneth decided to read Mother’s will to the three of us. It was the first time since Bridget had reinstated herself at Riggs that she had seen him. He took us to a small bedroom in the house while friends gathered in the living room and drank coffee. We sat in a row on the bed, Bridget, as stiff as tightly strung wire, between Bill and me. Suddenly tears were streaming down her cheeks but she did not move or make a sound. Bill and I edged closer to her and pressed our shoulders against hers. Kenneth obliviously went on reading the will.
Bill Francisco:
“What I remember most was her humor. She had a wonderful sense of humor. That’s what began the relationship and that’s what was always the best part of it
.
“She was a very two-sided girl. There was this wonderful childlike side which was legitimate, and there was also that of a woman
.
And I think one of the things that was wrong with the family relationship was a refusal to see the woman’s side. I mean she was a capable, bright lady, and when we first began dating, I didn’t feel I was dating a waif. Occasionally I would be aware of this other side—more after her death—how Logan and all those people felt about her, as if she was some sort of star child, strange little creature, fairy child. Which was great, but there was this other side. When your mother died—the late news came on: ‘Margaret Sullavan died’—I thought, oh, my God, so I called Leland and said ‘How is Bridget?’ And we were both worried that she was going to fall apart, that we shouldn’t leave her alone, so I came down to New York the next morning. She was shaken, obviously, but what she wanted to do was go to church and say a prayer for her mother. I convinced Leland it was all right. We left his place at the Carlyle and went back to her apartment so she could get some clothes. There was a little church across the street, and she said, ‘I have to go there, do you mind?’ So I stayed in the apartment; she put on a black kerchief, went off to the church, was back in fifteen minutes, no scene. She just wanted to have her moment. It was that side of her that I remember best.”
In the spring of that year, 1960, my brother and Marilla got married shortly on the heels of Father and Pamela, who had been in Nevada for six weeks awaiting his final divorce papers from Nancy Hayward. Nan and Father had been married for ten years. We children were sorry to see her go.
It was damp and chilly in Topeka. Bridget and I met Father and Pamela, fresh from Nevada, at the airport and we set up headquarters in the Holiday Inn. After a rehearsal of the wedding ceremony in a drafty Methodist church paneled in dark plywood with a crucifix suspended overhead, Father took everyone to dinner at a nearby steakhouse. All the women except Pamela, Bridget, and me wore their hair in sprayed beehives. Bill was in uniform, having just enlisted. Dinner was an uneasy success.
The next day, Bridget and I, who were sharing a room, were bored to distraction. It was gray and cold outside and all we had brought were summer dresses. Besides, the Holiday Inn was in the middle of nowhere. Suddenly the door to our room burst open and there stood Peter Fonda, whom we hadn’t seen in five or six years. Not only were we startled by his precipitous reappearance in our lives but also by the evidence that he was no longer fourteen yearsold. He notified us excitedly that he had been sitting in his aunt’s house in Omaha, Nebraska, a few hours earlier, minding his
Similar Books
