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  Tatum and John make an effort to include Patrick in their life, and gradually he begins pulling away from me. Not anything overt, just a subtle, quiet shift in his affection. I can’t blame him, but I miss his staying with me when he has a free weekend. Patrick has always loved sports, and John, whom Patrick idolizes, is generous with him, taking him to tournaments and celebrity events, treating him like a younger brother. I pass John and Tatum’s house on my daily beach run. If Patrick’s there, he’ll occasionally join me for a mile or two, but I can sense he’s uncomfortable, as if he’s being disloyal to Tatum. He shouldn’t have to choose between his dad and sister any more than I should have to choose between the woman I love and my only daughter. What makes this tawdry tug-of-war even sadder is that I don’t think Tatum is aware of what she’s doing to her family. It’s a debilitating survival instinct and it makes my heart ache for her. Sometimes when I’m passing the house, the curtains are drawn, but I see Tatum’s silhouette in the window, watching. She doesn’t invite me in or even wave hello. I tell myself it’s okay, that in time things will get better for all of us. On those afternoons when I return from my run, Farrah will ask what’s wrong. Too often I’ll snap at her, not wanting to explain because I’m embarrassed. She’ll gently coax the truth out, then keep trying to reassure me that this is an adjustment period for everyone and that I must be patient. I wish I could believe it was that simple.

  The rest of the year goes quickly. Extremities wraps without a hitch. When Farrah was shooting the made-for-TV movie Nazi Hunter: The Beate Klarsfeld Story on location in Paris, Christmas was doubly busy as we readied for the trip, mommy, baby, and me. Redmond’s first birthday is punctuated by a series of routine inoculations required to take him out of the country. Farrah and I expect the poor little guy to wail all the way through. As we’re filling out the forms at the pediatrician’s, we almost reconsider. When the doctor walks in, Redmond gives him this big toothless smile and coos. I see Farrah welling up. I grab her hand. The doctor starts filling the syringe. Farrah and I hold our breath. He inserts the needle. Redmond lets out a big, defiant howl, and then he’s fine. Days later we’re on our way to the City of Lights.

  These television productions are not glamorous. Farrah is on the set twelve to fourteen hours a day, often having to go through multiple wardrobe, hair, and makeup changes. It’s physically exhausting, and though she holds up under the pressure, it’s as if she’s being tipped over every day and emptied. And it’s not easy for her being away from Redmond. Her dilemma isn’t unlike that of every working mother. Her only free time is late in the evening, and by then she’s depleted and the baby’s fast asleep. Often, she’ll have to memorize lines for a scene the next morning before she can turn in. Some nights, she’s too tired to eat, and I’ll sit next to her in bed with Redmond cuddled between us, and rub her feet, reassuring her that soon we’ll be home.

  We brought a nanny with us, which allows me the freedom to spend a few hours on set each day. I’ll usually have the nanny bring Redmond by late in the afternoon, so that Farrah can see him while he’s awake. Farrah’s a trouper. She never complains, but when Redmond and I are leaving, her bright eyes go dull. Though I’m the one able to enjoy Paris with Redmond, watching her practice her craft with such abandon, despite the difficult circumstances, is making me wish the situation were reversed. It’s hard on both of us. We pretend it’s just temporary. If we’d talked out our feelings, resentments might not have accumulated. At times I feel impotent. Great roles, such as Michael Caine’s in Hannah and Her Sisters, parts I was ready for, were passing me by. I’d become James Mason to Farrah’s Judy Garland: it wasn’t my star aborning. I stopped reading the trades and the International Herald Tribune. Once I was an insider. Now I’m a mere observer. I’ve become a bouillabaisse of steaming feelings. As much as I detested the paparazzi, the day they lowered their cameras when they saw me alone forced me to realize that whatever magic I’d once had was gone.

  Paris, as someone once said, is a movable feast. We’re staying at the Elysées Parc Monceau, a historic hotel near the Arc de Triomphe. The night we arrive we’re too wideawake from the flight to sleep, so at 2 a.m. Farrah and I, with Redmond tucked cozily in his pram, stroll down the Champs-Elysées. It remains a favorite memory and one of the few times Farrah and I are able to walk the streets of Paris without being accosted by photographers or fans.

  In the mid-eighties the paparazzi were an even bigger challenge in France than in the States. There are nights when if we want to venture outside of our hotel for dinner, we must wait until after midnight for the photographers to disband. I try to keep Farrah’s spirits up by making her laugh. Redmond is more of a natural at it than I, with his curly red hair and pudgy, curious little fingers, always reaching for something new to examine. And this shoot is Farrah’s toughest yet. She portrays a German housewife who, with the help of her Jewish husband, launches a campaign to bring Nazi war criminals to justice after World War II. Farrah has to learn how to speak with a German accent, and it doesn’t come easily, requiring hours of practice on top of her already demanding schedule.

  And while I take care of her and Redmond the best I can, my frustrations are on the rise. Though I tell myself that this is Farrah’s moment and I’m here for her and our baby, I can’t pretend my dwindling career hasn’t affected me. There’s a possible role for me in a movie about professional bicycle racing. I agree to do it, and then just as I start to look forward to the project, the deal comes apart. The film is never made.

  Meanwhile, Farrah’s mood isn’t bright either. When you’re an actor and have internalized the character, by the end of filming it’s sometimes difficult to know where the character ends and you begin again. Many actors choose to live in character the duration of a production, and while I admire their dedication to their craft, I’ve always believed it’s one of the reasons why the divorce rate among serious actors is so high. Imagine being married to the ruthless villain or the wily seductress. I’m familiar with what some of these spouses have to endure while their husband or wife is deep into a role. And what if you’re both actors? The more I think about it, the more I realize that Farrah and I are beating the odds.

  Though I hate to leave Farrah and Redmond, Tatum is due around Mother’s Day and she’s extended me an olive branch. She wants me there for the birth of my first grandchild. Farrah cries when I leave, but I know I’m doing the right thing, and I tell myself I’ll be gone for only a few days.

  When I’m on the plane and the fasten-seatbelt light goes off, I take my favorite book of the moment out of my carry-on, A Confederacy of Dunces. I open it to where I had finished reading last night and discover that what I thought was my bookmark is actually a folded sheet, a letter Farrah must have written and slipped in this morning before I left, knowing I wouldn’t begin to read it until after my flight had departed. I open it.

  MY DARLING,

  I already miss you terribly. And don’t be mad at me, but knowing you’re a thousand miles away at thirty thousand feet in the sky makes it easier to tell you what I need to say. Ryan, I’m scared. I know your career isn’t where you want it to be right now, but you and I both know that’s only temporary and will change. Though you’ve been wonderful to me in Paris and terrific with Redmond, please tell me I shouldn’t be afraid of losing you because of my career. My life with you and our son is more important to me than any TV movie. I’d walk away from all of that if it would put the light back in your eyes. I think this trip to see Tatum will be good for you both. Please call me as soon as you arrive and tell me you’re safe. I love you with all my heart.

  FARRAH

  I call Farrah from the airport in Los Angeles and tell her not to be afraid, that I’m proud of her success and with her help, I’m sure I can get out of this funk I’ve been in. When I arrive at the hospital in Los Angeles, my daughter is glowing. On May 23, 1986, she makes me the proud grandfather of a baby boy, Kevin McEnroe. Four days later, Tatum and the baby are back home in Malibu
and I’m visiting with them. John has returned to New York to get the house ready. She and the baby will be joining him soon. The phone rings. Tatum answers and I watch her face turn ashen. “Dad, there’s been a terrible accident.”

  Tatum puts her hand over the mouthpiece and repeats to me what she’s hearing. “They were in a boat on the Chesapeake Bay. Griffin cut between two slow-moving boats. He didn’t know that one boat was towing the other. He saw the rope at the last second and ducked. Gio was practically decapitated.”

  It’s beyond my worst fear.

  Griffin was on location in Maryland working with director Francis Ford Coppola on the Viet Nam picture Gardens of Stone. He was starring in the film and Coppola’s son Gian-Carlo was on the crew. Francis had worked with Griffin on The Escape Artist several years earlier and liked him. He knew Griffin was having a rough time and wanted to help him restart.

  Gian-Carlo Coppola was twenty-two when he died, a year older than Griffin. At first Griffin denied that he was driving the boat and tried to place the blame on Gian-Carlo. The truth eventually came out. I imagine the scene over and over. He’s had a few too many, he’s feeling invincible. He spots these two slow-moving craft up ahead, and can’t resist. He guns the engine. Thinks he’ll have some fun. Adding to the tragedy, Gian-Carlo’s fiancée was two months pregnant. She would bear him a son whom he would never know. After a short trial, Griffin will be charged with reckless boating, fined two hundred dollars, and sentenced to eighteen months probation. They won’t be able to convict him of a felony because police never tested his blood for alcohol. Sometime after the trial, Gian-Carlo’s mother, Eleanor, calls me. I never saw her in the courtroom. She expresses sympathy for what I’m going through with Griffin, and suggests he might benefit from therapy. Here’s a woman who just lost her son, and she’s consoling the father of the person responsible for his death, offering support. It takes me a moment to find my voice. “I wish it had been me and not your son,” I tell her. “I mean that.” And I did. Griffin never worked in the movie business again. To my surprise, Francis replaced Griffin and Gian-Carlo and continued filming.

  But that’s all later. I’m still listening to Tatum relaying the details of the accident and my mind is racing. I’ve also got Farrah and Redmond in Paris waiting for me, and the night before when I talked to her, Farrah didn’t sound good. “And you’re absolutely sure your brother wasn’t driving?” I ask Tatum. “Dad, he’s saying no, and I believe him.” A part of me knows it had to have been my son behind that wheel. Griffin feeds on danger. But like Tatum, I was desperate to believe he was telling the truth. I was also concerned about Farrah, alone in Paris. Despite her protests, I could tell by the tone of her voice that she wanted me there. So after doing what I can for Griffin, I leave for Paris on the Concorde. I bring along Patrick, who’s on summer break. The tabloids are feasting on the story about Gian-Carlo’s death and I want to protect Patrick, who’s already been approached by reporters hoping he’ll give them some headline quote about his brother. Though I knew Patrick would never say anything or be disloyal, I wanted to rescue him from the treacherous attention.

  On the flight I’m imagining everything Paris has to offer and how I’ll romance my lady. When Patrick and I arrive at the hotel, I’m surprised by Farrah’s appearance. She looks haggard, and making matters worse, our son is cranky. So much for the return of the conquering hero. Tensions soon mount and will come to a head over a piece of chewing gum. Farrah is in the bathroom taking a shower. I’m groggy from jet lag, sitting on the bed with Patrick watching the World Cup on TV to relax. Patrick is chewing gum. Redmond, who was a toddler in 1986, wants some too, and like a fool I give him a piece. When Farrah comes out of the bathroom, she’s incensed. It was beyond irresponsible of me. I obviously wasn’t thinking. She rightfully becomes apoplectic. “He could have choked,” she shouts. Patrick and I decide to give Farrah some space, so we go for a walk, hoping she’ll have calmed down by the time we return. Though we manage to get through the last couple weeks on location without further incident, this event colors the rest of the trip for all of us.

  All we can think about when Nazi Hunter wraps is returning to the familiar comforts of home. Our plans are deterred at the last minute. Tatum and John insist that on the way back to California, we stop over in New York for a visit at his parents’ Long Island estate. I’d met his mother only briefly, at the hospital when Tatum was in labor, and I’d never met his father. But I don’t want to hurt Tatum’s feelings by declining and Farrah hasn’t seen the baby yet, so with Patrick and little Redmond in tow, the four of us take a car from JFK to Oyster Bay. When we arrive, Tatum and John aren’t there and his parents greet us with perplexed expressions. Soon I’m waiting for Alan Funt to pop out from a bush and say, “Surprise! You’re on Candid Camera!” To this day, I remain convinced that John’s parents were not expecting guests that afternoon.

  Despite the awkward start, thanks to Farrah’s unerring social grace, we spend a pleasant few days there, and then politely make our exit. And it’s not only desperately missing home that’s got me eager to leave. Several witnesses have come forward putting Griffin behind the wheel at the time of the accident, and my son needs his father. Two decades later, in her first book, Tatum will accuse Farrah and me of deliberately insulting John and his family with our abrupt departure. But that afternoon, as we’re exchanging good-byes with the McEnroes, we think everything is hunky-dory.

  Three months later an old boxing friend of mine calls and asks if Farrah and I would like to ride with them to the wedding. “What wedding?” I ask. “Tatum’s,” he replies. Now I know how John’s parents must have felt when they saw us standing on their doorstep. Tatum had mentioned the possibility of marrying John. She and Farrah had even discussed wedding dresses. Sometimes they would sit on the stairs that led to the beach and talk and laugh. I could hear the conversations from my bedroom. Tatum would range between the girl asking advice from her big sister to a peer discussing men, marriage, and babies.

  “John’s parents want a big church wedding, but I’d rather do it on a surfboard on the beach,” Tatum says.

  “It’s usually the other way around; it’s the girl who wants the traditional celebration and the guy who wants to get it over with as fast as possible,” Farrah replies.

  “Maybe that’s because he’s a New Yorker and I’m a California beach girl,” she answers.

  “I’ve only known you a few years, but you’ve always been your own person, sometimes for better, sometimes for worse.”

  “It’s been hard for me, Farrah.”

  “I know, Tatum, I know.”

  Over the past year, Farrah and Tatum have had talks like these, and never once did my daughter say anything about an actual wedding date. I tell myself it isn’t true, that there has to be some mistake, that my daughter would never get married without her dad walking her down the aisle, without her grandparents sitting in the front row, proud of their only granddaughter and unable to imagine a more beautiful bride. I tell myself that, yes, Tatum and I have had our struggles, but she’d never be that callous, she’d never hurt her family that way. And I can think of nothing to precipitate such hateful behavior. There haven’t been any blowups, no huge arguments, unless there was something smoldering beneath the surface, festering in that willful head of hers. I try to think of something I might have said or done, berating myself, then alternating to denial, convinced this is not so. I call my daughter and the machine picks up. I leave several messages. No response.

  And then, The Telegram. It’s dated August 1, 1986, 9:30 a.m. Pacific Daylight Time. And it reads:

  I hold the yellow slip of paper in my hand, and the images begin flooding my memory: tossing a fifteen-month-old butterball into the air and catching her, delighting in her giggles; a ten-year-old Tatum meeting Sir John Gielgud in London, and curtsying when I whisper in her ear that he’s a knight; that same girl watching me chat with Marlene Dietrich on an airplane and asking, “Daddy, who’s that old la
dy?” I can hear Tatum and me rehearsing for Paper Moon, and her asking me to stop because she didn’t want to get stale. She was nine years old. I see the two of us perched together on that yellow cardboard cutout of a half-moon, posing for the photograph that would illustrate the movie poster. Everyone assumes the photographer instructed her to pout for the photo. He didn’t. She couldn’t stand that itchy red taffeta dress Peter Bogdanovich, the director, made her wear that day. She was a precocious child. Hours on the set, takes and retakes, she rarely complained. I can still see little Addie Pray standing on that dusty country road, watching Mose drive away, and as the camera pulls back, she becomes smaller and smaller. In Paper Moon he comes back for Addie. Did I abandon the real girl on that dirt road? Or has she abandoned me?

  When I found the telegram as I was reading some old papers refreshing my memory for this book, it made me relive the depths of disappointment all over again. A door inside me locked the morning that telegram came, and I am still blindly searching for the key to open it. I never knew which Tatum I was going to encounter, the warm, affectionate girl or the chilly worrisome young woman. Looking back now, Tatum and John also hurt themselves. The focus of the press coverage wasn’t how beautiful the ceremony was or how glamorous the couple, but where were Ryan and Farrah? It shifted the conversation to family scandal, which was a shame. What still bothers me most was Tatum not inviting her grandparents. It’s one thing for my daughter to want to punish Farrah and me, but it’s another to do that to her grandparents. My mom and dad adored Tatum, were a loving, supportive presence in her life, and for them to be treated that way severed a bond between my daughter and me that has never been repaired.