“I have to make a comeback, Bob!” It was Candy Darling calling, in August 1973, and she sounded desperate. So far, it hadn’t been a good year for “the blonde of blondes.” Even though she’d had a critical and box-office success with Tennessee Williams’s Small Craft Warnings the year before, she couldn’t find work, or at least the kind of work she wanted. The one job she had done since the Williams play was The Death of Maria Malibran, a German movie directed by Rosa von Praunheim, a rising avant-garde filmmaker. But Candy didn’t want to be avant-garde; she wanted to be Kim Novak.
She was offered the “Harlow” part in the movie version of The Beard, by director Donald Cammell, but it required her to perform fellatio on “Billy the Kid,” and she turned it down. “It’s hard enough to give a blowjob in real life,” she said, “let alone on the screen.”
She was hoping to get the Joan Crawford role in the Broadway revival of Clare Boothe Luce’s The Women, but it went to Lainie Kazan, then to her understudy. Andy’s response was that I should write a play for Candy, Sylvia, Maxime, and Monique called The Bitches. Even Candy’s hopes to be a party-scene extra in The Great Gatsby remake came to nothing.
That spring, Sam Green had given a dinner for John Schlesinger, who was casting Day of the Locust, hoping he’d like Candy. But Schlesinger was more taken by a photograph on Sam’s wall of a newer blonde, Cyrinda Foxe, who was making waves among the Max’s Kansas City set by dropping David Bowie for David Johansen of the New York Dolls (who later became Buster Poindexter). The next day, hiding her disappointment, Candy called Cyrinda herself to tell her the good news. “But I can’t see John Schlesinger,” Cyrinda fretted, “not with these pimples!” Candy couldn’t resist. “Listen, darling,” she cooed, “that’s why he wants you instead of me.”
Sam Green, I believe, had also got Candy the job singing at Le Jardin, when it opened that June. It paid $1,500 a week, though half of that went back to the club to pay for the band and other expenses. But it was a regular income, and Candy moved out of Sam’s and into a questionable but modern hotel on Seventh Avenue. Unfortunately, Candy wasn’t much of a singer, and the jet setters at Le Jardin wanted to dance, not sit still and listen. Candy was out of work within a week, and now she had no place to live. Sam couldn’t really be blamed for not taking her back in; the last time he had, she came for a week and stayed for a year.
But poor Candy—on top of everything else, she wasn’t feeling well. She thought it was an ulcer, and took to drinking milk instead of vodka stingers. And she drifted. Sometimes she stayed with her mother; sometimes she stayed with her hairdresser, Eugene of Cinandre. She was still as beautiful, maybe more so, thinner and paler. She took to dyeing her hair a little less platinum, a little more “pink champagne,” as she called it, and dressing even more conservatively, always in black or brown.
One night, to cheer her up, I took Candy to dinner at the Italian embassy. She wore a plain brown Valentino cocktail dress, and Adriana Jackson, who loved this sort of caper, lent her some proper pearls. The old Italian baron she was seated next to thought he had finally found a real old-fashioned fifties sex symbol in the age of Women’s Liberation, and whisked her back to his suite at the Hotel Pierre. They drank champagne and danced the cha-cha, but Candy begged off going any further for fear he’d have a heart attack when he discovered that she was a he. The next morning, he sent her six dozen long-stemmed red roses with a note begging her to return with him to Rome. Candy called Adriana in a panic: “What do I do now? The poor man thinks I’m a regular Anita Ekberg. He kept whispering in my hair as we danced about finally meeting a woman who loves being a woman.”
On another night, perhaps the swan song of Max’s Kansas City, which was being killed by disco, Glenn introduced Candy Darling to Divine, the three-hundred-pound transvestite star of Pink Flamingoes. “Smalltalk” dubbed it “A Summit Meeting” because, to everyone’s surprise, the two blond bombshells formed an instant mutual-admiration society. Glenn recalled that Divine said to Candy, “I’m such a big fan of yours,” and Candy said to Divine, “I’m such a big fan of yours.” Then Candy imitated Divine’s best lines, and Divine imitated Candy’s best lines. They talked about everything from Watergate to leg waxing—“and where to get size-11 high heels,” Fran Lebowitz remembers.
When Scavullo invited me out to Southampton for Memorial Day weekend, I asked him to invite Candy too. Geraldine Smith was also asked, and on the way out, she started talking about Andrea Feldman’s suicide the previous summer. Geraldine said Andrea had left a note for Andy and it said, “You ruined my life and everyone else’s.” She went on and on with the gory details: Andrea landed on her feet. Her body was crushed from the waist down. They amputated the bottom half of her body for the funeral and had a half-closed casket.
Candy wouldn’t say a word against Andy, though she too had her reasons to be upset with him and the Factory, for passing her up when the parts were doled out for Frankenstein and Dracula. I remember telling her that Carlo Ponti said they had to use as many Italians as possible and Candy retorting, “Maxime de la Falaise is Italian? Monique van Vooren is Italian?” I mollified Candy by saying that I was still trying to get Andy to do my Evita idea, starring her.
On the way back to the city, we had another conversation in the car, about beauty and how to keep it. “Men stay better than women,” Candy said. “I don’t know why that is.” Was she having doubts about spending every cent she made on hormone injections and electrolysis? Candy continued wistfully, “It was easy to be beautiful in the sixties. A ton of makeup was chic. Now you have to be a real beauty in a real way, or you’re out.”
“You have to look like Tatum O’Neal,” said Scavullo, trying to lighten things up. But Candy took his quip seriously. “Like Tatum, right, like Tatum,” she said, sounding further and further away.
In September, Candy was taken for tests to Columbus–Mother Cabrini Hospital, the same small Catholic hospital where Andy had been taken when he was shot. “Why don’t you write my bio now,” she asked me, “before it’s too late?” She had somehow managed to get a private room, and the nuns had taken to her immediately. When I told her that the guard at the reception desk had referred to her as “Mr. Slattery,” she called him up and turned on her charm to convince him that only “Candy Darling” was to be used. “No one knows that other name except me and you. It’s our little secret,” she purred. Then, hanging up and turning to me, “You gotta know how to deal with these types.” She had interviewed model Lauren Hutton for us the week before, and had the tape ready for me, neatly labeled in lavender ink. “Now, don’t let that Rosemary Kent change everything around. I’m trying to get Hedy Lamarr to do an interview too, and I don’t want her messing things up.”
The tests went on for three weeks. Candy did her best to be cheerful when I went to visit, chatting about other interviews she wanted to do, and asking after Andy. We both knew that he would never visit her in the hospital, especially that hospital, but he always sent presents with me, anything she asked for: a shower cap, a special brand of toothpaste, Tic-Tac mints.
On Tuesday, October 2, 1973, I called Candy from the Factory and asked her if she wanted anything. She eked out the sentences in short gasps, “Yes. More juice. The sweet kind. I crave sweets.” I went to the hospital, bearing more gifts from Andy: expensive note paper, expensive chocolates.
She was spitting up phlegm when I arrived. I noticed today how white she was. Ghostly. Candy called for a nurse and as soon as she arrived I left. Candy said, “Tell Andy to call me. And no more presents. I don’t need presents.” It was the first time she didn’t put up a good front.
The next morning, I called Andy, and told him how badly Candy was doing and that she wanted him to call her. “Oh, I can’t, Bob. I just can’t. What’s wrong with Candy, anyway? I mean, do you think she really has cancer or something?” I said that her doctor wouldn’t tell me anything. “I know about doctors, let me tell you,” said Andy. And then he found an excuse to get off the phone. I realized Andy wasn’t going to be of any real help. It wasn’t that he didn’t care. He just couldn’t cope.
I called Maxime, who with the Jacksons had been paying for bills not covered by Medicaid. Maxime had also enlisted Nan Kempner. It was touching to see these grand society ladies going out of their way to help an impoverished drag queen. Maxime suggested calling Dr. William Cahan, the cancer specialist at Memorial–Sloan Kettering Hospital, and the husband of Vogue editor Grace Mirabella.
I called from the Factory, as Andy hovered over me. Dr. Cahan said that he would look into Candy’s case, to see if anything could be done that wasn’t already being done at Columbus–Mother Cabrini. He said he would need Candy’s clinical history, X-rays, and biopsy sample, and that I should have her mother authorize the transfer. Andy hovered over me through the call to Candy’s mother too. Teresa Slattery appreciated what we were trying to do, but she didn’t think there was much hope. Candy didn’t know it, but the doctors had told her that Candy had leukemia and a malignant tumor in her stomach. I hung up the phone and told Andy. For the first and only time in the seventeen years I knew him, I saw him cry.
That night, Andy and I went to dinner at Brooks and Adriana’s. The star guest was Gina Lollobrigida, in a gold brocade suit and matching shoes, and what looked like a big bouffant wig, chestnut-colored. “She looks like the wife of the French consul going to dinner at the English consulate,” said Maxime. Andy hated her, star or no star, and when she heard we were going to Rome the next week, and suggested we take the same TWA flight, Andy shot her down: “TWA goes on to Israel. You might get hijacked. Did you ever think of that?”
Gina held up the Polaroid I had taken of her with Andy. “Look at me,” she said, “with Death.”
“If only Candy were here,” Maxime said, “to put this one in her place.”
“Oh, I know,” said Andy. “What’s that great line, Bob, that Candy always says to the other girls, you know, when they’re going to the bathroom?”
“Mention my name and you’ll get a good seat.”
Dr. Cahan called me a few days later. Along with other specialists at Memorial–Sloan Kettering, he had reviewed Candy’s case, and there was nothing they could do for her that wasn’t already being done at Columbus–Mother Cabrini—radiation and chemotherapy. I called Candy and told her the best doctor in New York said she was having the best treatment. Within days, Candy was worse. She couldn’t talk on the phone and didn’t want visitors, because the treatments had made all her hair fall out. Sam Green said that she had two or three weeks left. But then Candy went into remission. She was released from the hospital in the middle of November, just in time for her birthday on the 24th. She was thirty years old, three years older than me.
There was a birthday party at her friend Jeremiah Newton’s apartment in the Village. Candy arrived an hour and a half late, wearing a chic black-sequined dress and a matching beret to cover her hairless head. We told her how great she looked. “I know,” she joked, “I finally have that swanlike neck I always wanted. I’ll tell you one thing, there’s more hair under this beret than under Andy’s wig.” She sat on the only sofa in the room and we sat on the floor at her feet and she opened her presents—negligees and dressing gowns, plastic jewelry, perfume, movie-star biographies, and a TV from Andy. Candy was ecstatic; she didn’t have one at her mother’s. “I feel very lucky to have so many friends. And I know if I die, it will hurt not only me but a lot of other people. That’s why I’m going to live—for all of you.”
Candy went to parties every night that week, as if it were her last. I saw her at Le Jardin, shaky but gorgeous in one of Maxime’s outfits. Maxime was holding Candy up with one arm and her husband, who had a broken leg, with the other. Nan Kempner and I went to help, and the five of us formed an impromptu chorus line, kicking our legs for the camera. WWD ran the photo the next day, and Andy was happy—maybe the ban was being lifted. And Candy, exhausted, carried the clipping back to her bed in Massapequa Park.
One night, when I got home, there was a letter in my mailbox addressed in lavender ink.
Jan. 30, 1974
Dearest,
Forgive me for not calling you regarding the book, but I have been very ill again—one week of severe headaches and now along with everything else I have Bell’s Palsy. My right hand and right side of my face have become paralyzed. I can not close my right eye. My mouth goes to one side and when I eat the food goes all over my lips. I am very weak most of the time. I can not call you as I am afraid the phone co. will turn it off. I can not pay the bill as everything has to go to medical expenses. No Medicaid. Tom Eyen asked me to be in his play 2008 1/2 and even advertised me in Village Voice and I heard a lot of people asked for money back for they did not see me. I would do it if he gave me money but I’m afraid of how I would appear in front of public. Don’t know what I’d do without the T.V. the Factory gave me. It’s a blessing. All I do is watch it. Of all the pain killers I have, the best thing is Anacin—imagine. Nothing else to say but please write or call. (Don’t forget the shut-ins!)
Love to all,
Candy
X X X
I called Candy the next day from the Factory and found out how much the phone bill was; Andy agreed to pay it. I remember him coming to the phone and saying, “Oh, hi, Candy, I hope you feel better,” and then scurrying back into Pat’s office.
Soon Candy was back at Columbus–Mother Cabrini.
Tuesday, March 5, 1974: Visited Candy at the hospital with Adriana. Candy looked like Joan of Arc in Bresson’s film. Incredibly thin. Hair grown in short and dark. A slight mustache like a shadow. Perfect facial bones and skull. One eye cloudy. One arm bandaged in plastic—paralyzed. Her voice deep, speech slow, everything from the throat, between coughs—“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” Her mother, Teresa Slattery, a small Irish woman with red-brown hair, in a purple knit pantsuit, white blouse, black boots, glasses with slightly pointed frames. She was feeding Candy bouillon she had made, putting it into a syringe, and then emptying the syringe in Candy’s mouth.
Candy died on March 21. A feeling of complete emptiness engulfed me, as if the floor had fallen out. Then the phone began to ring. It was the New York Times calling about the obituary. Margot Rivera saying that Geraldo was going to do a big spot on Candy on the evening news. Giorgio di Sant’Angelo saying that if Candy’s family wanted he would contribute the beaded black dress that Candy always loved for her to be laid out in. Maxime telling me about her visit with Candy the day before she died. A doctor had told her, “When you get better, I’ll take you out to dinner.” “Yeah,” said Candy, “we’ll go to Nedick’s.” The strangest call was from Jackie Curtis, Candy’s mentor, onetime friend, and lately bitter rival. Jackie was inviting me to the revival of Glamour, Glory and Gold. “Did you hear about Candy?” I asked. “Yeah, she died.” What did it all mean?
That’s what Andy wanted to know when he called: What did it all mean? Put it in the book, Bob, he said, this is philosophy. Then, rushing through the sentence like a child admitting guilt if it means he’ll get his milk and cookies, he said, “I guess I should have called Candy more.” He also told me to find out if the family needed any help with the funeral. And to send flowers. “You wouldn’t want to go, would you, Andy?” “Oh, Bob, I just can’t face it.” He wasn’t whining. He was pleading.
Candy was laid out in the same room where Judy Garland had been. The big arrangement of white chrysanthemums, orchids, and lilacs I had chosen was to the right of the open casket, with a note I had written: “To Candy, love forever, Andy.” Vincent had given me an Andy Warhol Films check for $500 for Mrs. Slattery, who was wearing a black satin suit, a string of pearls, and a black pillbox hat, and sweetly greeting Candy’s fans and friends with “Hello, I’m Candy’s mother.”
Candy’s father was also there, a small but solid Irish worker, with rough hands and a long-ago-broken nose. He said he called his son James, and that’s the way he wanted him buried. Candy’s mother frowned. It was a strange wake, with Candy’s family, an older brother, an aunt and uncle, some cousins, in navy suits and black dresses on one side of the room and Candy’s friends from the Theatre of the Ridiculous and La Mama and Max’s Kansas City in feathers and sequins and boas on the other. I briefly looked at Candy in the casket, embalmed, looking like the transvestite she never looked like in life.
After the eulogies by Julie Newmar, Eugene of Cinandre, and R. Couri Hay, as the mourners gathered on the sidewalk outside Campbell’s Funeral Home, a huge black Rolls-Royce turned the corner from Madison Avenue into East 81st Street and paused beside the hearse at the very moment Candy’s casket, closed at last, was being slid into it. The Rolls was driven by a smartly uniformed chauffeur, and sitting in the back seat, all alone, was an elegant old woman in white—white fur, white veil, white gloves. Gloria Swanson.