Bette Davis reaches the landing— pauses long enough to say goodbye to her dogs— then begins her final ascent to the cozy room where she'll die a painless, heroic death. She's not alone— she's discreetly observed by her kindly maid, distraught in an apron. It's the role I love to play, watching my own theatrics. On a typical day, spent between landing and bedroom, feeling my way, I'm also wringing my hands, helpless with sympathy, and oh, there isn't a dry eye in the house.