Janszoon: In the pursuit of Love, Family, and an Enduring Legacy

By Mark Kraver

It's 1942 and Humphrey Bogart seems to have it all. By day, he's reading lines for Casablanca with Ingrid Bergman; by night, he's drinking bourbon on the Sunset Strip with friends like Peter Lorre and Leslie Howard.
But to Bogart, life is not so glamorous. High-profile fights with his wife Mayo and a rigid studio contract committing him to a series of mediocre films have him feeling personally and professionally trapped.
That is, until one day a mysterious note arrives on set.
Heeding the strange invitation, Bogart finds himself in a series of long, secret conversations with his aunt and cousin about the swashbuckling tales of their ancestor, the pirate Jan Janszoon van Salee. These tales of the high seas ignite a fire within Bogart to carve out a path that is uniquely his own—even if it means shedding the roles and people who made him famous.
Janszoon is more than a Hollywood fantasy; it's a journey into the heart of a man wrestling with ambitions and desires, an actor who yearns to balance his on-screen personas with his off-screen reality. From his tumultuous marriage and infamous USO tour, through his affairs with Verita Patterson and Lauren Bacall, Janszoon imagines a life in which the enigmatic Humphrey Bogart seeks a legacy that transcends the ephemeral glow of stardom.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Mar 27, 2024
• ISBN: 9798350951097

Book preview

Chapter 1

Warner Brothers Studio Rehearsal Room

Hollywood, California

Thursday, May 28, 1942

I can’t fight it anymore, Ingrid cried out in a voice of desperation. Bracing her elbows on the table, she glanced at her script with teary eyes. I ran away from you once. I can’t do it again. She buried her face in the shoulder next to her to wipe her eyes and nose. I don’t know what’s right any longer, she confessed, feeling defeated. You’ll have to think for both of us, for all of us.

All right, I will, Bogart responded with a smirk. Playing the part of bar owner Rick Blaine, mesmerized by the beauty of the woman sitting next to him, he cocked his head and said from the heart, Here’s looking at you, kid. As he spoke, he held his script in one hand and faked a toast with his imaginary glass of champagne in the other.

I wish I didn’t love you so much, Ingrid whispered, sitting up. She searched for something to look at until, focusing on his lips, she drew his face down to hers with a hand around the back of his neck.

A narrator standing by the door read out loud: Rick hears a noise outside the room. He puts his glass down and goes to the door. Ilsa follows.

Cut! shouted Michael Curtiz. The director was sitting at the end of the table, combing over the unfinished script with a stubby pencil and worn-out eraser. Ah, I mean, stop, he muttered, deep in thought, not looking up.

Shaking her head in frustration, Ingrid dropped her script. She said to those around her, trying to keep her voice calm, God, I wish he would make up his mind about this awful script.

Yeah, Bogart said with a half-laugh. I need a glass of scotch to make this thing at least taste better. Several others around the table nodded, agreeing with him.

Ingrid turned to Bogart. And you. Calling me a kid. Really?

Bogie, Bogie, Bogie. You keep saying that line? Curtiz complained with a tired, anguished voice. "You’re driving me crazy. And here I thought getting Cagney to sing on key in Yankee Doodle Dandy was a momentous feat. All I want for Christmas is this film in the can. Your improv is killing me. He gnashed his teeth with restraint. Next time, follow the goddamned script. It’s— He scanned the cramped table and looked at the door. Script, please?" he shouted out.

One of the eager young assistants at the door fumbled with her pages and then called out with a questioning voice, Here’s good luck to you?

Who wrote that line? another person peering through the door asked. The voice was a familiar one on the set. It was Hal Wallis, the producer.

I did, grumbled Curtiz without looking up.

Bogie? Wallis asked for verification. Do you feel Rick would say, ‘Here’s good luck to you?’

I wouldn’t, so I guess Rick wouldn’t either.

I thought so. Do another take, staring at ‘You’ll have to think for both of us,’ but this time, follow the script. I think everyone will see for themselves which way is more, uh, effective. Then, after that is settled, time to meet makeup. We start shooting on Monday. Remember, Casablanca is in Morocco, occupied by the Nazi-controlled Vichy French puppet government, so do your due diligence. Groans around the table signaled everyone was too tired to stick around and try on wigs and rouge. Wallis let out an exasperated sigh. Alright then, we’ll put it off until tomorrow—early.

Oh, boss! A short, fidgety actor with large eyes asked with urgency. How early? I was going out tonight, and well—

Don’t give me any of your shenanigans, Lorre, Curtiz grumbled. You go out drinking every night.

All right, that’s enough, focus boys, Ingrid said with perturbed agitation about yet another change to the script. She coughed briefly into her fist, cleared her throat, and looked up. Placing her hand on her chest, she forced her mannerisms into the right frame of mind to play the role of the love-starved damsel in distress. You’ll have to think for both of us, for all of us, Ingrid delivered dramatically.

All right, I will. Here’s good luck to you, Bogart said, pretending to toast her again with the imaginary glass of champagne while raising his eyebrows up and down like Groucho Marx. Lorre bit his fisted knuckles not to laugh while another actor, Paul Henreid, threw his script into the middle of the table, not at all amused by Bogart’s endless antics.

No one made a sound. Eyes shot around the rehearsal table like pinball marbles until they all landed on Curtiz. He frowned heavily, bobbing his head up and down several times before saying, I’ll sleep on it. Then he raised his voice to announce, Tomorrow we shift gears a bit, going over the ending just a little—if we can get the script back before then. Oh, Major Strasser, ah, Conrad won’t be here tomorrow either, but that’s okay; all he does is get shot. He looked down at his note and scratched his head. Although who gets to shoot the Nazi, we still do not know, he added, throwing his worn-out pencil into the trash can.

The room, full of actors, let out a soft, barely perceptible moan at the idea of yet another delayed script.

I’ll make it easy. I can shoot the son-of-a-bitch, Paul shouted, causing some laughter. After all, I escaped from the Nazis, remember?

Literally, Lorre whispered to Bogart.

My, my, my, Curtiz said, shaking his head. Good evening, everyone. Oh, Bogie—, he added, remembering the note before him. Your wife called—again. He shoved the note in the actor’s direction, stood, folded up his papers, and abruptly went to Wallis’ side to discuss parts of the missing script and other irregularities.

What? Mayo? Did she need something? he asked, looking at the note that just said ‘Mrs. Bogart called again.’

Yeah, she needs your hands strapped around her— Lorre laughed, raising his eyebrows, then flashed Ingrid a warning frown while shaking his head slightly.

Bogart smiled proudly. I can’t help it if she loves me to death; can’t do without me.

Paul leaned toward Ingrid and Bogart. Bogie, we don’t need more of your hijinks. This picture is already bad enough. He rose and left the room with a sardonic thumbs-up gesture to indicate he hoped Bogart had gotten the message.

Ingrid looked at Bogart with a brilliant smile.What’s with him?

The aristocrat? Oh, he’s just sore. I’ve beaten him in chess too many times.

Chess? she asked, tilting her head and smiling coquettishly.

Bogart grinned with amusement. He was well aware of Ms Bergman’s history with her leading men. Apparently, she believed cultivating off-screen chemistry was key to being convincing on the big screen. He also knew she tended to ditch the men as soon as the last scene was shot, but there was no reason not to enjoy the attention for now. Yeah, you know. Life is like a game of chess? Bogart said with a knowing smile.

She pouted and tucked a curl behind her ear. I don’t know how to play chess very well, she confessed.

Really? I’d expect a girl like you to be pretty good at it.

Oh? Maybe you could teach me some moves? We could also play golf—but you would have to lose on purpose. You won’t want to make me cry? She bit her lower lip and batted her eyes with a quick smile.

How about we review the rules over a drink? Bogart asked, leaning back in his seat.

Still smiling, the leading lady didn’t answer but rather stood and straightened her blouse.

Here’s looking at you, kid, Bogart said as she moved to join the director and producer to add her ideas for spicing up the plot.

I can go drinking tonight, said a feminine voice as a petite figure appeared between Bogart and Lorre.

Snapping his eyes away from the incomparable Swedish actress and back to reality, Bogart noticed the twenty-something bombshell talking to him. Hello? he asked with intrigue, examining her curvy backside.

He had noticed the attractive young woman enter the room earlier wearing a tailored woolen skirt to just below the knee, paired with a fitted blouse, moving with purpose and poise, her heels clicking on the polished studio floors, attracting every man’s attention. He’d lost sight of her after that as she blended into the scenery by mingling with the leaving actors, but he was pleased to note she was just as beautiful up close.

Señor Bogart, if you need a drinking partner, she said with a soft Spanish accent after listening in on their conversation. My dance card has an opening for you.

Dance card?

Yes, you still know how to dance with a young woman? Lorre asked, sliding forward to take over the conversation.

Almost too distracted to remember what to do, the woman stopped and redirected her attention back to Bogart. Señor Bogart, I almost forgot. A message from Uncle Henry, she said, handing him an envelope. Bogart’s face visually changed to concern, and he hesitated momentarily to take the letter from her hand.

You haven’t mentioned an Uncle Henry. What’s it about? Lorre asked with interest, straining his neck to see the letter with his bulging eyes.

I don’t—where’d you get this? Bogart asked her, deflating his lungs and then shifting his eyes off the girl’s desirable features to examine the letter more carefully. Seeing written on the envelope was the name ‘Uncle Henry,’ the only thing he could think about was the Wizard of Oz.

A woman dropped it off. I don’t know who she was. Well-dressed, about your age, with hair like mine. She seemed to know her way around. I assumed it was your wife? She touched her impeccably styled victory rolls as she spoke. Bogart nodded at her trendy spirit and had no doubt his wife was now donning a new hairdo.

Ha, Lorre laughed. If it was Mayo, she would have barged right in, shown off her new look, and delivered the note in person along with a wet smack on the kisser. What does it say?

Yeah, right, Bogart said, laughing affectionately at his wife’s bold antics before ripping open one side of the envelope. He blew the tear to pop it apart, large enough to reach in and pull out the letter. ‘Tonight—Michigan Ave’ were the only words written. He contemplated the message for a few seconds while scratching the hairs on the back of his neck before it finally dawned on him who sent the letter. The realization made him uneasy.

What does it say? Lorre persisted, and Bogart frowned with a quick flush of sweat. It was one thing for his personal life to be the object of endless gossip, but he certainly didn’t want to subject others to the same trash-laden scrutiny.

Shaking off Lorre’s prodding, he winked at the pretty young girl while staring at the string of modest pearls gracing her neck. Señor, eh? he asked. Why, that makes me sound downright ancient.

Ancient? No, not in my hands, she said, fluffing his hair.

Bogart flushed. So what, are you my hairdresser?

The woman began circling him like a cat, rubbing his ears and pressing her slim body against his. Si, if you want me to be. Just call for Lupe, and you will be the most handsome—and happiest—actor in Hollywood. I promise.

Lupe? Like that Mexican spitfire Lupe Vélez?

That’s the ticket, she said, smiling out of the corner of her mouth. She pulled her shoulders forward to blow him a winking kiss with her bright red, voluptuous lips.

Bogart was intrigued but unimpressed. He appreciated she was there to work and needed the pay, but he didn’t need the additional attention. And this poor young thing didn’t need his wife’s attention either. He knew hairdressers like this would do anything to keep busy, but he didn’t care if she did a good or bad job on his head because he despised wearing a hairpiece in his movies and only wanted to shoo her away like an annoying fly. He looked back at the letter, narrowed his eyes, and glanced toward the exit. Feeling the nosey but chummy Peter watching him, Bogart forced a chuckle and said, Did you hear that, Lorre? She said she could make me the prettiest actor in Hollywood.

Lorre pouted. Balderdash. I thought that was already Errol Flynn and me.

Bogart laughed, I told you Jack Warner wanted to make me look like a girlyman. In his last film, he had Cagney looking like a Yankee Doodle Dandy. I tell you, he’s given all of us gangsters a bad rap.

Lorre acted shocked at the allegations that his beauty might make him look feminine. He pulled up his coat collar and wrinkled his brow, attempting to make his facial features look more debonaire to the young, enthusiastic hairdresser.

Bogart felt a tap on his shoulder. After hearing the alternative out loud, I decided I like your improv better than just ‘Good luck,’ Ingrid said, standing behind him. When he turned, she added, It is mysterious and unique enough to intrigue the audience. I told them to keep it in. She reached up to straighten his collar while focusing intently on the tiny scar on his tight upper lip. She licked her lips as if anticipating a kiss before turning abruptly to walk out the door as gracefully as a princess.

Lorre left the hairdresser, pushing a few chairs aside to stand beside Bogart. I think she likes you.

She better not, he said in a low voice, still enamored by her words.

But why?

Because I’m married.

Okay then—do you think she likes me? Maybe I should ask her to go drinking with us tonight?

Better not.

But why? Lorre complained.

Still stunned by her graceful departure, Bogart answered, Because that is the only real lady in this whole blasted town. Besides, she is married with a kid, and so are you.

What? I have a child? Ha, don’t tell my wife.

And she is at least a foot taller than you.

She’s taller than you, too, he said, directing his attention back to the young flirtatious hairdresser.

Yeah, but I only have to wear wedges on my shoes; you’d have to wear stilts like a vaudeville act to look her in the eyes.

Bogart folded the note and placed it deep into his coat pocket next to his ubiquitous flask of bourbon before slipping silently to pick up his copy of the script and following Lorre out the door.

Then, with tango flare, the short actor turned around, his presence commanding, his movements profound. Lorre sashayed the hairdresser, young and bright, with a hand extended, guiding her with delight.

An unlit cigarette danced upon his lips as he whispered to her with secretive quips, Let me show you my hairdressing room, dear; I’ve got a little itch that needs you near.

Chapter 2

Los Angeles, California

Thursday, May 28, 1942

Bogart abruptly turned his Jaguar XK-120 into a diner’s parking lot and was not surprised to hear tires of another car screeching to a stop. He’d long suspected his jealous wife, Mayo, of having him followed to find out how many women he was cheating with, and he could not afford an audience tonight. It was a busy night at the restaurant, and he shot into a tight parking spot, then turned off the car and ducked down, hoping the trailing detective would not see where he’d stopped. But after a few moments, he could see in the rearview mirror where the car also stopped abruptly across the street.

With a sigh, Bogart exited the car and walked briskly into the diner without looking back. He knew from experience that private eyes usually wait out in the car, not risking detection. He also knew they liked to see who else was entering or leaving, taking a picture or two of any suspicious women. Bogart moved across the dining room and into the kitchen before any customers noticed him. He stood for a second over the slices of freshly grilled prosciutto cotto laid out into dishes and picked one up to sample.

You’re welcome to dine out front. It would do me and my business good having such a big shot eating here occasionally, the owner, Luigi, said, coming out of the walk-in freezer.

Big shot? Is that movie already out?

But before the little fat Italian man could answer, Bogart lamented, Sorry, Luigi. Not tonight; got other plans. I need to borrow your bike.

Luigi nodded with disappointment and led him out the back door, where he stepped on a screeching cat’s tail.

Get, scat, you lazy cat, the owner yelled angrily. He turned to Bogart with a smile of affection, saying, I love cats more than rats.

Thanks, Luigi, I’ll make it up to you, he said, reaching out to swap the little bald man’s floppy chef’s hat for his woolen fedora before mounting the cherry red bike and trying out its tiny bell with a smiling, Thanks, pal. Then, with a quick wave of his hand, he peddled off into the night and right past the private eye, who didn’t give the floppy white hat a second look.

Riding a bicycle assured no one would follow him to his nearby destination. Honking horns from startled motorists and being chased by barking dogs made his trip difficult and dangerous, but still, he managed to arrive alive at the suburban home because he was more sober than usual.

Minutes later, after a strenuous uphill bike ride, he arrived at the modest house on Michigan Avenue, situated in the Wellington Heights area. He rang the small bell on his handlebars to signal his presence, but no one emerged to welcome him. He took a moment to admire the full moon and the picturesque palm trees lining the street, feeling the refreshing breeze from the Pacific Ocean. Lighting a Chesterfield, he took a deep drag, watching the smoke dissipate into the night. He discarded the cigarette butt into a neglected flower bed and approached the shadowy porch. A sense of unease settled in as he observed the unlit windows, uncertain if the house was occupied. Searching his pocket, he retrieved the note written in bold letters, murmuring to himself, Tonight?

He knocked sharply on the flimsy screen door, the sound echoing as it struck the painted wooden door behind it. Suddenly, an intense light mounted to the right of the door pierced his vision, momentarily disorienting him. He felt the door slowly inch open and a forceful tug on his arm, accompanied by a gruff voice urging, Get inside now.

Confused and disoriented in the low interior lighting, when the door shut behind him, he questioned, If you wanted to hide me, why turn on the porch light?

Can’t be too careful. This town’s full of perverts, the woman replied with worry while clicking on the nearby lamp and taking his chef’s toque-blanche hat with silent curiosity.

"Ha, none that you can’t handle. So, Aunt Hazel, what’s this Uncle Henry note about?" He laughed nervously, questioning why she sent the cryptic message in the envelope with that name printed across the front.

I thought you’d be intrigued, the elderly woman replied with a coy smile. I’m glad you remembered suggesting I call myself that at your mother’s funeral—and you were right. The press hasn’t gotten a whiff of me living here in L.A. yet.

With anticipation bubbling inside, he exclaimed, And I am intrigued! So what’s this all about?

She looked at him fondly. Oh, I just missed you, she answered wistfully. And I didn’t think you’d come if I put on the note I missed you.

Aunt Hazel, I’ve missed you too, but….

But what? Are you telling me you’d be here now if I issued you a formal invitation?

Maybe… he said with doubt.

Not, she quickly added. Oh, you are always so busy. I was feeling lonely, and I couldn’t think of a better cure than a visit with my favorite nephew. I’ve always had a soft spot in my heart for you.

You mean your only nephew close enough to call on such short notice?

Yes, there is that, of course, but you’re twisting my words. I’m not destitute, you know. She took a deep breath through her nose and said, I do have some family news to fill you in on.

Bogart nodded, waiting for her to elaborate, but her gentle smile said she wasn’t ready to share details. He moved closer but hesitated to hug. As a child, emotional displays within his family were rare, and when she reached out and took charge of delivering the embrace, he was relieved.

Don’t be shy, kid. I’m not going to hit you; I’m not your mother, she said, hugging him again tightly and scratching his aching back.

You mean ‘Maud,’ Bogart said wryly, straightening up. She’d turn over in her grave if she heard me call her ‘mother.’

Hazel couldn’t help but chuckle as she shook her head, bemused at the memory. She was certainly a strange one. She gazed at his tired face more closely, then reached up and rubbed her thumb across his scarred lip with nostalgic disapproval. I’d always hoped you would find as much love off-screen as you do in the movies, despite your upbringing. It’s the most elusive of all life’s little pleasures and so much worth finding at least once in your life. Maud and your father quarreled so; it never looked like true love, instead just a marriage of convenience.

Well, those women in the movies are kissing me, not the other way around, he qualified with debonair flare, not wanting to conjure up unpleasant thoughts about his parents. Looking around the old familiar house for a drink, he saw a pot of tea sitting on the distant parlor room coffee table with an assortment of fruit, cheeses, and what he supposed were olives; he’d been expected.

Come in and stay for a while, she said, and as they walked into the front room deeper, his prowling eyes spotted the wet bar with relief. It was moved from its usual place next to the couch, closer to the kitchen, making it less accessible. Have a seat, and I’ll pour you a cup of tea to catch up with your fabulous career. How is it, my darling boy?

My fabulous career? Bogart half-laughed before his face contorted into a frown. He sat on the couch, legs spread, arms resting behind his head. It’s a sham. The whole goddamned Hollywood business is a sham.

Aren’t they paying you enough? she asked, feigning a gasp of disappointment. Seeing his frown deepen, her expression softened. Okay, sorry. Tell me. Why is it a sham? She picked a black olive from the platter next to the teapot and popped it into her mouth, settling into the plush parlor chair across from him after spitting out the pit into her napkin.

Bogart sighed. The money is good, but it’s not all about the money. It’s about the illusion, the artifice. Hollywood sells dreams, not reality. You always play a part, even when the cameras aren’t rolling. The public doesn’t want to know who you really are; they want the character you portray on screen. And the studios? They’re just factories churning out what sells, not what has artistic value or integrity.

He paused, searching for the right words. You become a commodity, not an artist. Your worth is measured by box office returns, not by the quality of your work. And the worst part? You start to buy into it yourself. You start to believe the illusion is real, and you lose a part of who you really are. That’s why it’s a sham. It’s a gilded cage, and we’re all willing captives.

With a graceful overture of her weathered hand, she plucked another olive out of the platter and then offered one to him. Try one? she asked as she leaned forward.

He waved her away grimly. Don’t olives go with martinis? God only knows I need one about now, he countered, looking across the room at the wet bar.

She nodded but ignored his request for a stiff drink and asked, What picture are you working on now?

Her question agitated him. "My worst gig ever. Casablanca. It’s a hurry-up war propaganda piece shot on the studio backlot to take advantage of the American people’s patriotism. It’s like they’re making it up as they go along, changing the script daily. I’d rather be doing something more productive, like shooting Hitler in the mustache. He slurped his tea loudly and clinked his cup into the saucer with frustration. Instead of fighting like a man for my country, I feel like my mother’s little Lord Fauntleroy all over again."

Lord Fauntleroy? Oh, yes, for her company’s illustrations. You were such a cute boy when she dressed you in that sailor suit. Hazel laughed at the recollection. That is until your buck teeth and large ears started to show, she added with a playful smile.

The corner of his lips twitched into a faint smile as the memory ran through his mind. He recalled the year his mother stopped including him on her holiday calendars at work because his blooming adolescence made him look disfigured.

Sucking your thumb as a baby was cute, but doing it until you were almost a teenager didn’t help— Hazel laughed again, giving him an affectionate gaze.

You know, Maud wanted to straighten my teeth, but Father, the doctor didn’t see the point, he said, casually cleaning his front teeth with a napkin-covered finger. Doctor Bogart got this idea from a colleague that if I kept my upper lip taut while speaking, it’d sort itself out.

Hazel chuckled with a slight nod, recognizing her nephew was eager to move on from lamenting his career path. Is that why you have that unique way of speaking, hiding your upper teeth? she inquired.

Not exactly. It was Maud’s doing? he nodded about the truth. She didn’t appreciate me pulling my lip like that, thinking I was mocking her. One day, she was out of her meds and not in the best mood. I must’ve said something to set her off because she smacked me right in the kisser with a wooden spoon. Broke it and left splinters in my lip, right here. He touched the scar with his right hand near his nose. And the same doctor who gave my father that ridiculous advice messed up the repair. So, I’ve talked this way ever since. I’ve heard doctors call it a lateral lisp and offered plenty of ways to correct it, but I told them, ’Why fix it? I kinda like it.’

I’m truly sorry you had to endure such hardship, both physically and emotionally, she said, her voice tinged with compassion. It’s a sad irony when those meant to protect and nurture us cause the most harm. But the fact that you’ve persevered says a lot about your resilience.

Even as a kid, I think I knew they weren’t right in the head. I could see it in their eyes, he said with a snort as tears welled up in his sad eyes. He squeezed them shut and wiped his face. I must have something in my eye?

You’ve always had a soft heart. I remember as a child, your emotions always got the best of you. I think that’s what I loved about you the most, she said, comforting him with a warm hand touching the side of his face. I also remember both Maud and your father took medication; milk of the poppy?

Maud had her migraines, and father had chronic back pain ever since a carriage accident right after medical school. That’s why he never played sports with me, Bogart said, wiping his nose, looking to the crystal decanter and glasses on the distant wet bar for liquid courage. Not that it really mattered—I didn’t end up needing a fastball for my career, he jested before lowering his head and holding the bridge of his nose while bracing himself on the corner of the couch. Oh Hazel, look at me now. I wear a wig and high heels like some courtier in a French King’s entourage, just to maintain this Hollywood image of masculinity and charm. Being a leading man in big-budget films every day is exhausting. He shook his head and wiped his weary eyes just as headlights seemed to pull into the driveway. He opened his mouth to ask if Hazel was expecting someone but didn’t get the words out before she began speaking.

I can only imagine it’s as demanding as being the head of a family, Hazel sympathized. She offered him a plate filled with an assortment of cheeses, olives, and crackers. Have you eaten? You look like you’ve lost some weight.

The headlights seemed to have disappeared, and he silently concluded with some relief it had simply been a car turning around in the road. Nah, I’ve always been skinny. Maybe that’s why the Navy keeps rejecting me. They’re probably scared I’ll end up in one of their newsreels and shatter their illusion. Imagine the audience seeing me, he paused, envisioning the scenario, mucking around in the trenches, hair falling out, face unshaven, and absolutely zero glamor. The Hollywood façade of every actor in the military could crumble in an instant.

I thought it was because you were too old and had already served before.

Too old? he said with renewed rage. Why, I can shoot a fifty cal and pop off depth charges like the other boys. They should be sending more of us experienced sailors into action and leaving the younger boys behind to repopulate.

Because the experienced sailors can’t repopulate? Hazel asked with a cautiously amused smile, putting down the refused cheese platter.

All expression drained as he readjusted his tired, deflated bones in the comfy seat and lowered his eyes with his face slowly morphing into sorrow. Then, with a sigh of resolution, he professed, Well, they won’t be getting that from me either. Mayo doesn’t like children. She can hardly take care of our dog, Cappy. But then, turning up his eyes to force a smile, he added, But who knows? Maybe I’ll be drafted into the Navy, and after I’ve been away for a while, she’ll be hungry enough to try for a different kind of ankle-biter before we miss that window.

Has she not already, um . . . Hazel hesitated, trying to find a delicate way to ask.

Bogart cut in to rescue her, offering, Past her childbearing years? He paused before answering, his mind churning through his conflicting thoughts about children and enlisting. Other actors he knew had already enlisted, in one way or another, just to get away from it all, he thought. He popped an olive into his mouth. Only half-chewing it up, he swallowed the pit and all, lamenting, Oh, Hazel. Maybe we are both too old. My life is not all it’s cracked up to be. Sometimes, I feel like leaving it all behind and sailing away to some exotic land where no one knows who I am. You know, start it all over again.

That’s because it’s in your pirate blood, a warm yet authoritative voice said behind him. Startled, he turned to see a woman emerging from the kitchen, carrying a teacup and a steaming pot.

Nora? he exclaimed, half-rising from his seat.

I feel it too, she said, placing the items on the coffee table before leaning in to kiss his cheek while humming softly, Hello, dear cousin. She turned her head sharply to admonish her mother, You’re going to burn the house down if you keep leaving the stove on like that.

I can’t help it if that damn whistle on the pot broke, she said dismissively.

Well, you’re lucky you have any water left; it was boiling over, she said to her mother’s quick shrug of indifference.

You look different with shorter hair, Bogart said, avoiding the minor skirmish. I had no idea you’d be here tonight! Relieved to know who the headlights belonged to, he grinned broadly and settled back into the couch. "So what’s this about us having pirate blood? You know women aren’t pirates."

You’re right, Hazel answered for her daughter. According to the pirate code, no women or children are allowed on a pirate ship. If found, they’d be either marooned in some desolate place or pushed overboard.

Nora waved her hand as if that would never happen today. Remember those pirate stories she used to tell us as kids? She smirked, indicating Hazel.

Of course, he said, glancing at his aunt.

Well, they’re all true, Nora declared, her face raising a ghastly leer.

His expression shifted from a warm smile to one of incredulous disbelief.

Has she told you why she’s summoned us tonight? Nora asked, catching her mother’s twisted expression in a rare moment of silent tension.

She hasn’t mentioned pirates, if that’s what you’re asking. I assumed she had some family news about some obscure relative akin to Judy Garland, Bogart replied. She’s been holding me captive, killing me with small talk. I think she’s trying to bore me to death. I’m relieved you’re here; maybe you can divert the conversation away from me for a while.

That’s Mom for you—always in a rush to get nowhere, Nora chuckled.

I didn’t realize you thought so poorly of me, Hazel interjected, her face showing a flicker of concern before she hid her smile behind a sip of tea. But what I have to say can wait a bit longer. You two have some catching up to do.

Mother, you know I don’t think poorly of you! Nora exclaimed. She looked at Bogart to explain. She and I have buried the hatchet. When it comes right down to it, when you grow up and come to your senses, you only have one family and one mother.

And I only have one daughter, Hazel offered.

Bogart looked from one woman to the other. Buried the hatchet? I didn’t know there was a hatchet to bury.

The two women shrugged simultaneously. Their mannerisms were almost mirrored images of one another. Oh? We all have our skeletons, Hazel said sagely.

Bogart shifted uncomfortably in his seat, his eyes darting between Nora and Hazel. He crossed his arms over his chest, a protective gesture, and his foot tapped incessantly on the floor, betraying his unease. His jaw was set tight, and he swallowed hard, trying to mask the discomfort he felt witnessing the emotional exchange between mother and daughter. You know, he said, clearing his throat. It’s so odd to me to hear that. I think of your family as the most stable one I know. In my house, Maud and my father were always fighting over something. My teeth alone had them battling viciously, but it was anything and everything. Maybe that’s why me and Mayo— His voice trailed off, remembering the past and veering off the present subject.

Nora smirked. Oh yeah, it was bad there for a while. After my father drank himself to death, I blamed my mother. We didn’t speak for years because of it.

Funny thing, Hazel said. It was your mother’s funeral that broke the ice between us. Nothing makes you rethink the futility of holding a grudge like seeing an unhappy person die.

Nora gave her mother a sad smile. And I realized it was his damn fault for drinking so much. His commitment to his successful law practice was to blame instead; that drove him into the coffin. Not mommy. She raised her eyebrows to her cold tea. Anyhow, I got here a few days ago, Nora said, her tone turning more upbeat. She picked up her cup to snuggle beside her famous cousin on the couch. I had to check up on the Admiral of the Pirate Fleet. She winked at her mother. You know, Lou passed away earlier this year, and I thought Mother might need some moral support. I’m going to hang around for a while.

Hazel sneered at the mention of ‘Lou’ as she swallowed her chilling tea. You didn’t really know my second husband, did you, my son? Louis Timothy Weadock was a pompous arse, but I did love the man. He just loved Eunie more—and his dogs.

I can see a Eunie messing things up, Bogart said, already familiar with marriage infidelity, but dogs?

Indeed, and a Eunie can happen to the best of us when our guard is down or we take someone for granted. But yes, his damned dogs. He bred them, you know. She sighed. I was a cat person. I raised two kittens; they were sisters. Despite that, other than being jet black, they were as different as night and day. Both lived to be nineteen years of age and died within six weeks of each other. Katie—

Oh, I loved Katie Kat, Nora reminisced.

Me too. She had short hair and acted like a dog, remember?

Nora laughed. She used to stretch out her front paws up your leg so you would pick her up, even to complete strangers.

But not her fat sister, Ellie Belly. She was the long-haired one and spooked into the back room when someone arrived, Hazel said, drifting into past pleasant memories.

You should get another cat, Bogart said.

Oh no, she added in a haunted voice. I put all pets on the ‘no replacement clause’—right there on the list after my darling Louis. I don’t have nineteen more years to wait for the death of another companion. Besides, if I were to die alone, I hear a cat might eat me—like a marooned pirate.

Mother? Cats don’t eat dead people, Nora scoffed.

No? Well, that’s what I heard.

Bogart found himself laughing heartily, both at their banter and the ‘claws’ pun, before asking, I do remember this Louis of yours was a sailor?

Yes, kinda like you. Hazel put her cup back on the saucer and scoffed, If I were smarter, I would’ve hung that young hussy, Eunie, from the yardarm like a real pirate the minute she started skulking around my man. Rearranging the cushion in the chair, she added, Then again, maybe I should do what Lou did—

What’s that? Bogart asked.

Hazel stilled, and her gaze shifted so that she seemed to look more through Bogart than at him, saying, Ah, to be free and make a new trip down to young faces on the Sunset Strip. Then her focus changed to him, But remember, my dear, it’s not just age that’ll keep. A love strong and true, so pure and so deep. She shoved a non-filter Chesterfield into her tight lips and fired a match for a quick light before tossing the smoking stick into the ashtray.

Aunt Hazel, I didn’t know you were a poet, he said with a smile of contentment.

Oh yes, Nora said with a touch of condescension. She used to write me a poem daily and put it in my lunchbox when I was in school.

Really? Bogart responded. So that’s where you got your writing skills from?

Nora furrowed her brow skeptically. You do remember my father was a reporter-turned-attorney?

Yes, but that stuff is dry and uninteresting. I’ve read your work. You write with much more flavor, almost like poetry.

Nora smiled at the compliment, then looked at her mother with affection, adding, I did always look forward to lunch.

But poetry confuses me, he admitted. Like yours. It sounds pleasant to the ears, but there is always an inner meaning that I miss until someone explains it to me. What inner meaning does yours have to offer?

Hazel paused and looked up at the ceiling, considering the question before continuing. Find someone much younger to hold me tight, On the Sunset Strip, in the neon light. Guitars strumming, and the night’s still young, In this city of stars, where dreams are sung.

Mother! Nora laughed as her mother leaned back in her chair, still looking up