This Time Together Read online

  I decided not to write anymore, hoping she’d still like me.

  A couple of years later, Joe and I (now married) went to the Four Seasons restaurant in New York for dinner. It was a beautiful room, at the center of which was (and still is) a large lighted shallow pool, with tables surrounding it. While the maître d’ was checking our reservation I looked around, and there at the nearest table, in a seat next to the pool, with three other folks, was … JOAN.

  “Joe!” I whispered urgently. “There’s Joan Crawford! What do we do?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I never answered her last letter! Oh God, maybe she won’t see us.”

  Looking straight ahead, we made it past her table. Then we heard her voice.

  “Carol?”

  We turned around. She stood up and reached across the table for my hand. I gave it to her.

  “Hi, Miss Crawford.”

  “No, no, no! It’s Joan!”

  Introductions were made all around. She gave Joe and me a big hug. I felt better. She wasn’t holding a grudge. We made our way across the room, where Joe and I were seated at a table for two next to the pool. The waiter handed out the menus. I glanced across the pool and saw Joan Crawford staring at me. I smiled and she blew me a kiss.

  “Joe, she just blew me a kiss.”

  “Well, blow one back.”

  I did, and she blew another one.

  “Joe, it’s like the letters. We’ll be blowing kisses all night.”

  Joe, ever the voice of reason, said, “Then don’t look across the pool.”

  Right.

  Dinner came and went, and I hadn’t once glanced across the pool. I finally sneaked a peek and saw that her table was being cleared by a busboy. Whew.

  I turned back to Joe and saw his eyes looking straight past my right shoulder and down at the floor. I turned around, and there was Joan Crawford next to my chair, on her knees.

  “Carol darling, it’s so wonderful to meet you in person after all these years.”

  “Thank you, Miss Crawford.” I looked around. Nobody seemed to notice. “Please, get up.”

  She didn’t. She just stayed there on the floor, on her knees. “No, no, no! It’s Joan!”

  “Joan … please, please, get up …”

  “I’m fine right here.” She wasn’t budging. She took my hand and put it to her cheek. “I’m so happy for this evening!”

  We told her that we were, too. Joe took her hand and helped her up. She gave him a dazzling smile.

  Years later, on my variety show, we did a takeoff on Mildred Pierce (called “Mildred Fierce”) after Joan Crawford had won an Oscar for the role. Bob Mackie had outfitted me in a pinstriped suit with enormous shoulder pads, which was a brilliant re-creation of her look in that movie. After our sketch aired, I got a letter from her: “I loved it. You gave it more production than that f——ing Jack Warner!”

  Thus began another round of correspondence …

  How Not to Make Small Talk with Royalty

  Back in the 1970s the shah of Iran’s sister and I had one thing in common: our obstetrician, Dr. Blake Watson. She flew all the way to California from Iran so he could deliver her babies. I drove from Beverly Hills to St. John’s Hospital in Santa Monica, where he delivered my second and third: Jody in 1967 and Erin in 1968. (Carrie had been born in New York in 1963.) One day Dr. Watson called to invite Joe and me to a black-tie housewarming party that the shah of Iran’s sister (the princess) was giving for herself. She had bought a home in Beverly Hills and had just finished redecorating it. Coincidentally, the house happened to be right up the street from our own, up a short and very steep hill that afforded her a spectacular view of the city. You could call us neighbors. Dr. Watson explained that the princess’s children (who were now in their teens) watched our show whenever they were in the United States, and were fans. Hence the invitation.

  The night of the party arrived, and Joe and I got all gussied up and drove up the hill. It took us about thirty seconds to get there.

  A servant, formally dressed and wearing white gloves, opened the door, and we were ushered into a living room that looked like a Persian palace. Multi-colored beaded curtains divided the spacious rooms, thick area rugs lay on inlaid tile floors, and in place of sofas and chairs to sit on, there were huge silk pillows—burgundy, gold, jade, and deep purple, with their tassels combed out and spread neatly on the rugs. The room was empty. We were led out to the terrace, where guests were mingling and drinking champagne. Exotic languages filled the air.

  We didn’t recognize a soul. Everyone sounded and looked like they belonged in the UN. Over their tuxedo jackets some of the men wore red sashes with a medal or two sewn on. The women looked like they had pilfered most of Queen Elizabeth’s jewelry. A couple wore tiaras. In my black, long-sleeved turtle-neck silk evening gown and pearl earrings, I was definitely underdressed. Joe, in his tux, looked swell. A gentleman (I think he was an aide of some sort) approached us and asked us to come and be introduced to our hostess.

  She was lovely, with dark hair falling about her shoulders; she looked every inch a princess. After a few polite “How do you dos” she then turned her attention to more arriving guests. Joe and I stood there holding our champagne flutes and proceeded to make small talk … with each other.

  “Carol! Joe!” At last—someone we knew! Dr. Watson and his wife made their way over. He had the princess’s two teenagers in tow, and we were all introduced. The kids were shy, and it wasn’t long before they were whisked away to meet other guests.

  Cocktails dragged on for over an hour, and my feet were beginning to hurt. I turned to Joe. “If I don’t get out of these heels soon, I’m going to faint. I have to sit down.” Parting a beaded curtain, we wandered back into the living room and headed for the pillows. I gratefully plopped down on a big red number and promptly sank to the floor. Joe joined me. I slipped out of my shoes and stuck them under a couple of tassels. There we were, sitting side by side on these down-filled floor pillows, staring out into space, uncomfortable as all hell because there was nothing to lean against.

  Then she appeared. The princess.

  “May I join you?”

  She sat down between us, and I swear she didn’t sink to the floor. I couldn’t figure it out. She had to have thighs of steel to support her legs like that. So there we sat, all three of us facing the same direction, looking like we were waiting for a bus. She towered over us.

  Silence. I leaned back a little and looked around the princess at Joe, trying to make eye contact. He was staring straight ahead, and it didn’t look like he was going to start up any kind of conversation anytime soon.

  It was up to me.

  CAROL: Soooo, Princess …

  PRINCESS: (looking down at me) Yes?

  CAROL: Y’know, we’re neighbors….

  PRINCESS: Really?

  CAROL: Yep. Sure are.

  She smiled, nodded, and faced front again. Silence.

  CAROL: Yessireebob, we’re just right down there at the foot of this hill—spitting distance, you might say. Yep, right at the foot of this very same hill.

  Joe coughed. The tone of his cough carried a touch of warning, but I barreled on.

  CAROL: Sooo … gosh, the next time you’re in town … well, hey, why don’t you just roll on down the hill for a bowl of Rice Krispies?

  I couldn’t believe that had come out of my mouth.

  PRINCESS: Rice Krispies?

  Joe cleared his throat. No use. Too late.

  CAROL: Uh, you know … Snap, Crackle, and Pop?

  She stood up, thanked me for the invitation, and made a beeline for the terrace.

  I’ve been a Cheerios person ever since.

  Stanwyck and the Leprechaun

  The year was 1981 and I was in the middle of a trial. I was suing the National Enquirer for printing a false story that I had been romping around drunk in a Washington, D.C., restaurant, forcing desserts down customers’ throats and winding up in a fight wi
th Henry Kissinger. The whole story was made up, except for the fact that Dr. Kissinger and I happened to be dining there that same evening, at separate tables. Period.

  I had been advised at the time to just let it go because the next morning the article would be lining birdcages. But I didn’t want to let it go. Nobody was going to lie about me like that and think they could get away with it. It took five long years to get to the point of a jury trial, at which time we were able to prove that the Enquirer had made the whole thing up, and I was awarded a hefty sum. I paid my lawyers and donated the rest of the money to various schools promoting ethics in journalism.

  While I was still in the middle of the trial, I had an early appointment with my doctor for a quick checkup before heading downtown to the courthouse for another long day of testimony and long-winded lawyers. Dog-tired of the whole thing, I was beginning to wish I had let it go.

  I sat down in my doctor’s waiting room and picked up a year-old magazine. As I was flipping through the pages, the door opened and in walked Barbara Stanwyck, a major movie star for over fifty years—and one of my idols. We didn’t know each other, so I tried not to be intrusive and kept my eyes glued to Popular Mechanics. One thing about my doctor—he never dropped the names of his other patients.

  Barbara Stanwyck sat down on the couch across the room and started rummaging through her purse. I peeked over at her. She looked wonderful. She was in her seventies, and her strong face was framed by a beautiful head of snow-white hair. She was wearing a smart black suit with a diamond pin on the lapel, and her still shapely legs were crossed at the ankles. She found her glasses and put them on. She looked at me and smiled. I nodded and smiled back.

  She spoke first. “I have something to tell you.”

  Usually that meant a conversation about our TV variety show.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re going to whip the Enquirer’s ass.”

  I laughed. “Miss Stanwyck, from your lips to God’s ears.”

  “Don’t laugh. It’s a done deal, so you can just relax. Trust me.”

  “Boy, that would be great. Thanks so much for your encouragement.”

  She flashed those eyes, and I got the feeling that she was somewhat agitated with me.

  “Look, I’m not making this up or wishing you the best here, get it? I’m telling you I KNOW you’re gonna win this case.”

  I didn’t know how to respond. I sure didn’t feel like disagreeing with Barbara Stanwyck.

  She leaned forward and, almost in a whisper, said, “My leprechaun told me.”

  I smiled, nodded, and for once in my life I kept quiet.

  “Oh, they exist, all right. I have this one who’s never wrong. He’s seen me through thick and thin. And he told me Carol Burnett’s going to whip their ass.”

  The receptionist opened the door. “You can come in now, Miss Stanwyck.”

  Before she disappeared into the doctor’s office, she looked back at me and smiled. “Don’t forget now—he’s never wrong.” She held up two fingers and said, “Now, number one, get a good night’s sleep. Number two, remember their ass is gonna get whipped.”

  I did.

  And it was.

  A Girl Named Kathy

  We were just about ready to wrap up our eighth season in March 1975. It was our next-to-last week. I remember that Phil Silvers (of Sgt. Bilko fame) and Jean Stapleton (Edith on All in the Family) were our guest stars. It was Monday. We had just finished rehearsing and I was in my office getting ready to go home. Joe was working in his office with the writers and would join me later. I picked up my script, said goodnight to my secretary, Rae Whitney, and headed down the hall for the elevator. I pressed the down button and waited. Just as the doors started to open, Rae came running down the hall.

  “Wait!”

  “What is it?”

  “You just got a call from a woman who would like you to phone her twelve-year-old daughter who’s in the hospital, dying of cancer. I wanted to give you the number, in case you’d want to call.”

  She gave me the phone number of the hospital room and I entered the elevator.

  I got home and went upstairs to the small room off the bedroom where I kept a writing desk, stationery, pens, and a telephone. Reading the number Rae had given me, I found myself on the fence as to whether I should call or not. How should I sound? Upbeat? Sympathetic? I wasn’t sure what to do. I had always avoided requests like this because I never knew how to handle them. Sometimes I sent balloons or flowers, but I never got close.

  And yet … this was different. I didn’t know why, but suddenly I knew I had to make the call.

  The phone rang on the other end of the line. A woman picked it up.

  “Hello?”

  “Hi. This is Carol Burnett, and I got a message to call Kathy.”

  “Omigod! Thank you so much. This is Kathy’s mom, Paula.”

  “Hi, Paula.”

  “I can’t begin to tell you how much this will mean to her. She has been watching your show ever since she was a baby.”

  “Is Kathy available to talk?”

  “Oh my, yes! She’s right here.”

  I heard her whisper something. There was a bit of a pause, and then: “Hello?” The voice was faint and thin.

  “Kathy?”

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, dear. This is Carol. I got your message to call. I hope this is a good time for you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your mom tells me you watch our show all the time.”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you have any favorite parts?”

  “I like it when Tim makes Harvey laugh, and when you’re the dumb secretary.”

  “Mrs. Wiggins?”

  “Yes.” She sounded breathy at this point, like talking was becoming too much of an effort. I had an idea.

  “Kathy, can I talk to your mom?”

  Paula came to the phone. “Thank you so much. Kathy’s thrilled.”

  I asked her if Kathy was up to any kind of travel. “You see, we have a run-through of the show at three o’clock every Wednesday afternoon in a rehearsal hall at CBS—for the writers and the crew—and I was wondering if you could find out from Kathy’s doctor if it would be okay for her to attend. I could send a car to bring you and take you back. Do you think it would be possible?”

  The doctor made it possible.

  It was time for our Wednesday run-through. We were all gathered in the rehearsal hall getting ready to go through the week’s sketches and musical numbers. I kept looking at the door. It finally opened and there she was, along with her mother, Paula. Kathy was in a wheelchair. She was so very thin. She was bald. I ran over to them, hugged Paula, and bent down to give Kathy a kiss, but I could tell something else was wrong. She was blind. Paula explained that it had happened just the day before.

  I had only known about Kathy for two days, but I felt my heart breaking. I couldn’t take my eyes off her beautiful little face. I kissed her and put her hands to my cheeks. Her fingers traced my features. I did my best to keep from crying. I didn’t want her to feel the tears that were welling up. Yet here was this extraordinary child, actually smiling. I put her hands in mine and felt a most strange sensation, not unlike a small jolt of electricity: I know this child. I have been with her before, somewhere, somehow.

  Joe came over, and I introduced him to Paula and Kathy. He was visibly shaken.

  Then it was time for the run-through.

  After a typical Wednesday rehearsal I would go upstairs to meet with Joe and the writers and talk about any changes we needed to make. This time I told Joe I was going to stay in the rehearsal hall and visit with Kathy and her mom before it was time to get them back to the hospital. Joe wasn’t pleased, but he understood how I felt, and left me with them.

  Paula told me that ever since Kathy was four and our show was on, she would walk over to the TV, point to me, and say, “That lady’s my friend … my friend!”

  All I could think was, I know, I know.


  She also said that Kathy was resigned to her fate. She told me that after she went bald as a result of chemotherapy, they were at the beach one day and some kids had teased her because of her lack of hair. Paula had chased them away, clearly upset. Kathy told her mother it was okay. “I’m not supposed to be here long. I’ve always known it. It’s okay.”

  I walked them down to the waiting car and asked Paula to call me when they got back to the hospital to let me know how Kathy had held up.

  She called around dinnertime. “Kathy’s temperature went up slightly, but she’s been smiling and telling all the nurses what an exciting time she had. The doctor said it was good medicine.”

  Thursday was camera blocking and music day. I couldn’t get Kathy out of my head (heart?). That night I went into my little office and put pen to paper.

  Dearest Kathy,

  I feel that I’ve known you before. Your mom told me that you’ve always felt a connection between us. I can believe it, because I felt the same way in the deepest part of my very soul the minute we met. Remember this: If you need me to be with you whenever the time comes, let me know and I’ll be there with you. Don’t forget. I’ll be there, Kathy.

  All my love,

  Your friend, Carol

  I folded the paper and tucked it away in a small drawer in my desk, knowing I would never mail it. I simply wanted to write my thoughts down and put them out there in the universe. It felt good.

  On Friday we taped the show, and at the beginning, when I did the question-and-answer segment, I said hello to Kathy, which was my way of dedicating the show to her.

  On the drive home that night Joe expressed his feelings about Kathy. He was worried that I was getting too close and might get hurt. I told him I couldn’t help it, that there was much, much more to this experience than met the eye. I said I didn’t know when it would be over but I was in it for the long haul—that much I knew. I also knew I wouldn’t get hurt. I felt that, somehow, this was one of the most important events of my life, and I should meet it head-on.