Both of Us Page 12

  But enough of that. We were talking about 1995. Being an actor, I sometimes think about my life as if it were a script. It gives me perspective. And if Farrah and Ryan were fictional characters in a made-for-TV movie about that year and I was writing the screenplay, these would be some of my production notes.

  FARRAH:

  We meet a frustrated, angry woman whose once delicate features are tight and pinched. There are new lines on her face and she has circles under her eyes. She feels unappreciated by Ryan, taken for granted. She’s the one who has to do everything: be the disciplinarian for their son, Redmond; run two households; manage the day-to-day minutia of their lives while Ryan wallows in self-pity, his moods and outbursts kidnapping the joy their family once knew. There are no boundaries. And she’s exhausted being made responsible for his feelings as well as her own. Enter Griffin, the prodigal son, who invites his younger half brother into his world. A montage of images: a strung-out thirty-year-old Griffin, roach clip dangling from his key chain, a packet of Easy Rider rolling papers peeking out from his pocket, jamming on drums with his adoring ten-year-old brother; a teary-eyed Redmond running after Griffin and his buddies, begging to be taken along as they’re pulling out of the driveway. A dream sequence: an anxious Farrah, sitting alone in a theater watching her worst fear unfolding: Redmond turning his life over to Griffin. She keeps attempting to climb onto the stage and insinuate herself into the play so she can change the ending. A blond hulk keeps pushing her back. A series of shots depicting Farrah with Redmond: mother and son tearing down the driveway on skateboards; an art class where she and Redmond are sitting side by side, he’s clasping a paintbrush and she’s guiding his hand across the canvas. Late at night, a shot of the living room, a disengaged Ryan is draped across the couch with his book, then cut to the basement, where we see Griffin, half stoned and listening to a Grateful Dead album with Redmond asleep in his lap. Cut to the downstairs hallway, where we hear Farrah weeping from the other side of the closed bathroom door.

  RYAN:

  He’s sick and tired of Farrah’s constant anger and can’t understand why no matter how hard he tries, he can’t please her or dilute the disappointment he sometimes sees in her eyes when she looks at him. He tells himself that she’s the one who should be trying to please him, that it wasn’t he who sought refuge in the arms of another. His resentment builds. Reenter Griffin, whom Ryan will defend against an indignant Farrah, not realizing that before the decade is over, Redmond will follow his big brother down the rabbit hole. Scene opens with the exterior of Ryan’s gym, then cut to Ryan on the treadmill. His shirt is soaked with sweat and he’s out of breath, yet he keeps pushing himself. A close-up of his face. He’s aged since we saw him last. There are visible signs of strain around the eyes and mouth. He’s unshaved. The camera illustrates his dilemma. We see images of a trembling Redmond begging Ryan to make Mommy stop yelling all the time; Farrah grabbing another pack of antibiotics from the stash in her medicine cabinet and popping them like vitamins; a series of quick scenes depicting a parade of dubious New Age healers, with their tie-dyed sacks of potions and herbs slung across their shoulders, coming in and out of the house; Ryan lying on the couch pretending to be reading to avoid another argument; Ryan hesitating by the bathroom door, listening to Farrah’s tears, longing to comfort her; he’s about to knock on the door, hesitates, then retreats once again to the couch.

  But we weren’t fictional characters. We were two very real, very human people who were disillusioned with each other. I started withdrawing emotionally not because I had stopped loving Farrah; I still adored her but it had become a matter of self-preservation. Everything set her off. If someone forgot to take a telephone message, she’d rage. If you disagreed with her about a quiz show question, she’d stomp out of the room. And what you have to realize is that this wasn’t like Farrah. She was always spirited, but this was something new. It was as if an evil stranger had reached inside and cranked up her anger generator. I remember I had bought Redmond a painting of his favorite baseball player, Ernie Banks, and hadn’t yet gotten around to hanging it. Farrah noticed it leaning on the dresser and started a tirade, and by the time her energy was spent, she had attacked my kids, my ex-wife’s lifestyle, and my politics. It was as if the painting had ignited a string of ancient fights and offenses that had to play itself out for her to be able to breathe again. It got to the point where I started escaping to the beach house while Farrah sought refuge in her art, sculpting and drawing. We became skilled at seeking shelter from each other. The one who suffered most was Redmond, who couldn’t escape either of us. No wonder he was susceptible to Griffin’s example. Looking back now, I believe that our not having married exerted a greater influence on our little family than we realized. We were both so cavalier about the idea of marriage, and when we finally decided we wanted to do it, had to do it, by then fate had other plans. But would we have tried harder if we hadn’t each owned separate homes, if we were forced to adhere to the conventions of marriage, a man and wife living together under one roof? Would our script have been written differently?

  By the end of 1995, I had convinced myself that Farrah’s unsettling state of mind was due to menopause. I figured in six months it would pass. I can see you shaking your head. I’m not of the generation that talks about these things. Most of what I knew about “the change” came from Edith and Archie Bunker in that famous episode from All in the Family. And by the end of the third commercial Edith’s hormones are fine. For the record, I did ask my mom about it too. She said I shouldn’t worry, that Farrah would be back to herself shortly. She wasn’t.

  As winter surrendered to spring, I, too, felt like giving up. For her forty-eighth birthday, Farrah had posed seminude for a Playboy spread, and they put her on the cover. It was an international sensation. I remember holding the issue in my hands, thinking to myself, “Look at you. You have everything: a man who loves you, a beautiful son, the world at attention; so what’s wrong? Why can’t you crawl out of this dark place you’re in before you drag us both down?” Men can occasionally be stupid. Since Good Sports, her bouts of poor health were suspiciously regular—sinus infections, colds—but now, instead of letting her body heal on its own, she’d pump herself full of antibiotics. It was her drug of choice, her security blanket. I can only imagine what they did to her immune system. I watched the woman I love disarm her body’s natural ability to fight off diseases. Oh, I’d warn her that taking a Z-Pak for her head cold wasn’t either smart or effective. I tried to explain that it’s like the boy who cried wolf. Take the antibiotics when you don’t need them, I’d tell her, and they won’t work when you do need them. But she wouldn’t listen.

  She was leaning on anything available to give her strength and it wasn’t working. Was it possible that all those years with me and my kids had stripped her of her fortitude, and then when the day came that she needed to draw upon her reserve, there was nothing left? I asked one of the New Age gurus who had come to my house a few times, Dr. Mumbo Jumbo, why he was treating her. He said, “To cleanse the lining of her soul.” How could Farrah have been that desperate and lost? How could I have been so self-involved that I didn’t see it? Don’t answer. I already know what you’re going to say and you’re right. Where was I during all this? Running off to the gym for hours each day, immersing myself in racquetball, squash, handball, tennis, boxing, and weight training, becoming obsessive about staying fit. Even after multiple operations on my knees, I still couldn’t stop pushing myself. I was becoming neurotic, and writing about this now, I realize it wasn’t much different from Farrah’s addiction to antibiotics or her reliance on witch doctors. We were both trying to harness our bodies because our lives felt so pointless. I was exhausting myself to achieve what passed for a peaceful state of mind. And I was running from the things that were haunting me: my failures as a parent, the career I should have had but didn’t. And all the while Farrah was melting. We both missed it happening in each other, like two tops spinning so fast,
all we could see was a blur.

  Then my father died.

  It doesn’t matter how old you are when you lose a parent. The grief never entirely recedes. I loved my father deeply and we had a strong, honest relationship. Born and raised in North Carolina, he was a gentleman, a kind and decent man. It’s probably one of the reasons why he didn’t achieve success befitting his accomplishments. This was a subject we never talked about; it was just something I sensed as a kid. My dad’s ambition was eclipsed by his values; he couldn’t step on others no matter what the reason, and he got shortchanged in this town because of it. He was never bitter about it. Hollywood, like Washington politics, can steal your soul. You enter the arena a young idealist and begin moving up the ladder, one rung at a time, each one slippery with ruthlessness and cynicism, and by the time you reach the top, you wonder why you barely recognize yourself. My dad never let this place change him.

  He migrated here fresh out of college, which is where he was given the nickname Blackie. His first name was Charles. He initially came to Hollywood for the same reason thousands of other hopefuls did: to become an actor. He joined an acting troupe, which is where he met my mom, Patricia. After publishing a short story in Esquire, he decided to forgo performing and concentrate on writing. Over the next three decades he would write for both film and television. He wrote the screenplays for many low-budget B movies that would become cult classics, such as The Seventh Victim and Cry of the Werewolf, both produced by RKO Pictures’ head of horror Val Lewton, an irreverent genius whose work influenced filmmakers from Hitchcock to Scorsese.

  I remember my dad bringing me on set when I was growing up. Back in those days some of the biggest stars from the golden era were reduced to B movies later in their careers. I got to meet many of them: Ethel Barrymore, Errol Flynn, Deanna Durbin, Donald O’Connor, all of whom starred in movies that my dad wrote. That early experience, witnessing how in Hollywood even the greats were relegated to the sidelines once they’d outlived their glory, stayed with me. I’m still haunted by some of those faces, how sad and empty they looked.

  I have many wonderful memories with my dad. One of his favorite jobs was writing for the popular television series The Untouchables, starring Robert Stack. He once put me in an episode. He incorporated my mom into a couple of episodes too. Dad also did a lot of work in Europe. When I was in high school, our family moved to Germany, where he was writing broadcasts for Radio Free Europe. During that period I landed my first job, as a stand-in/stunt man for an American television series shooting in Germany: Tales of the Vikings. It was magical, and to my dad’s credit, he never discouraged me from becoming an actor. When we returned to the States, I accepted every role offered and eventually built my way up to Peyton Place, a hugely popular nighttime soap opera that launched my career and introduced America to a brilliant young talent, Mia Farrow. Remind me to tell you later the story about how she met Frank Sinatra. But back to my parents … My dad didn’t start slowing down until his late eighties, when his memory began to dim. I recognized he was declining after I started noticing scratches and dents on the Cadillac I’d bought him. He was proud of that car, so I knew something was wrong when he couldn’t understand how it had been damaged. Dad played Big Ten football at the University of Iowa, where he was an honorable mention all-American. In those days they wore leather helmets. It’s a miracle his memory stayed sharp until he was nearly ninety.

  Yours truly in glorious youth.

  I credit my mother for my father’s good health and longevity. She lived another ten years after my dad passed in 1996. She was his most ardent admirer and supporter. She proofread all of his work, and I can still hear their exchanges, her offering her critique on a particular scene and his spirited response to her usually apt assessments. They were the consummate team, maybe because they adored each other. And what a couple they made, my mom with her petite frame, auburn hair, and blue eyes, and my dad, tall and broad shouldered, with his masculine good looks. He was one of those men who believed a woman should be treated like a lady. He would always open the car door for my mother, pull out her chair, wait patiently for her to “put on her face” for the evening, and then beam when he’d see her coming down the stairs.

  Every family has its legends, and we have ours. I’ve researched it and can’t find any references, but this is the story my mother told me: My mom’s maiden name was O’Callaghan. Her mother was born in Russia; her father, my maternal grandfather, was from Ireland. He was a tinker and supposedly invented the electric heater alleged to have started the Seattle fire of 1910. Apparently, my grandfather needed to make a hasty retreat from Seattle to avoid authorities who wanted to arrest him for toasting the town, and so he packed up my grandmother and my mom and they decamped to Toronto, where my mom lived most of her early years. I don’t know if any of this is true, but isn’t it a grand story?

  Though my mom would take on bit parts occasionally, she was a self-selected wife and mother, though she had a small but memorable role in Rosemary’s Baby. She was our anchor and our nurturer. I also have a younger brother, Kevin. He’s struggled with health issues most of his life. He suffered two terrible brain aneurysms when he was young, which have limited his activity. He was an amateur boxer like me, not the best exercise for someone who has a fragile brain.

  When I look back on my youth, I can’t help but wonder how someone raised in a stable and loving environment could have ended up making such a mess of his own family life. I suspect my parents must have had moments when they asked themselves, “Did we go wrong somewhere?” My mistakes as a husband and father are mine and I take responsibility for the painful parts of my life as well as the joyful ones. Our parents may set the stage, but we’re the ones who determine what our characters will do as our lives are played out. It’s what Tatum struggles with daily. My parents instilled in me a sense of hope and optimism, the instinct to see the best in others, and it’s on me, not them, that my expectations were unrealistic. At first I was too young. By the time I began to figure it out, I’d been married and divorced twice, was still in my late twenties, and had three children. The trail I was on got twisted and I couldn’t straighten it out. The sad irony is that there’s a fallout from growing up in a happy home. To this day I carry with me some of the belief that all will end well just because it should. It was my coping mechanism when I found out Tatum had become addicted to heroin and was entering her third stint in rehab. Maybe not the best response I could have had, but when a daughter has banished you, what choice is left? Being a Pollyanna was better than losing all hope.

  My brother Kevin and I in our prime.

  This feckless sense of human nature also colored my time with Farrah. I kept praying everything would be all right between us, but by the end of 1996, our problems had escalated. Farrah and I were also guilty of a mistake many couples make: we both expected our mutual love for Redmond would be enough to get us through anything. We were relying on him to be our savior, and no child should ever have to carry that burden. We weren’t unlike the couple who get pregnant thinking a baby will fix whatever is broken in their marriage. It never works, and it didn’t for us either. Redmond’s grades started slipping again, his attitude worsened, and he turned to—you guessed it—Griffin. I loved all three of my sons and desperately wanted to believe that Griffin’s efforts to change his ways were genuine despite masses of evidence to the contrary. I thought that if I believed in him hard enough, eventually he’d believe in himself. Farrah knew better. I wish I’d listened to her, but at the time I had on glasses with a rose tint. I don’t anymore. A fireplace poker shattered them, but I’m getting ahead of myself. We were discussing the end of 1996. Our little family was imploding and Farrah and I sensed it, but we had grown so accustomed to evading the obvious that only shock or tragedy could jolt us out of our foolishness. We would be hit with both. A series of seemingly innocuous events would precipitate their arrival.

  We’re nearing Christmas. I’m in production for a new comedy, Burn Ho
llywood Burn. The screenwriter is Joe Eszterhas, whose list of box office successes includes Basic Instinct and The Jagged Edge, and Arthur Hiller is directing it. He was the director on Love Story, and to be back on the Paramount lot, working with him after twenty-five years, is a homecoming. Every morning I wake up full of energy, eager to begin the day. I haven’t felt this good about a role in a long time. The excitement on set is terrific and everyone from cast to crew is spot on their game. I want to stand on the hood of my car and shout, “I’m back!” There would be some serious chemistry off set too, but I’ll get to that in a minute. Making this job even sweeter is that I don’t have to be on location. The entire film is being shot down the street from my beach house, where, sadly, I’ve been spending most nights alone. At this point, Farrah and I are barely living together. Our relationship has reached its nadir.

  JOURNAL ENTRY, DECEMBER 20, 1996

  My hand is shaking as I write this. She turned on me again. She’s coming unhinged before my very eyes, obsessing about a video camera at the beach house, insisting I left it there. I know for a fact it’s somewhere here in her house. Then, she’s telling me that I’m dirt. I guess I am for taking it from her. I begin to seethe and the next thing I hear is myself hollering back at her for always blaming me for whatever goes wrong.