Both of Us (13 page)

Friday night, January 11, 1991, 10 p.m.,
Good Sports
premieres. The critics are dissecting our “surprising lack of on-air chemistry.” Worse, the ratings are dismal. Doesn’t anyone remember that
Small Sacrifices
was nominated for an Emmy and a Golden Globe? But that’s how this industry works. You’re only as good as your last success, and as far as the reviewers and the network are concerned, that miniseries is ancient history. The public is fickle too. Consider Charlie Sheen. One day he’s the sitcom leader in television land who becomes a hero across America; the next day he’s a nut making a spectacle of himself spewing nonsense on prime time who can’t give away tickets to his Torpedo of malarkey tour. Six months later everyone loves him again after a brilliantly self-deprecating interview on Jay Leno. Good for you, Charlie!

While Farrah and I are still trying to catch our breath from the disappointing premiere, we’re hit with another setback. This time, it’s not Tatum; it’s her husband, John. The producers of
Good Sports
thought I could persuade McEnroe to appear in an episode. They’d already roughed out a script that they asked me to give to him. I believed it would be good for John’s career, but even more important, I thought it was a wonderful opportunity for my son-in-law
and me to mend fences that had been in a state of disrepair since that weekend five years earlier at his parents’ house. Though Farrah and I did see John and Tatum on occasion, it was always awkward, and by the middle of an evening everyone would be making excuses about why it was time to go (sadly I rarely saw my grandchildren and I wouldn’t really start to know them until years later when Tatum and I began our reality show). I was hopeful that if John did an episode of
Good Sports
, it might quell the dissonance. No such luck. I never even hear back from him, not a word. I call, I leave messages. I send Patrick, who’s staying in New York, to hand deliver the script. To this day, John has yet to acknowledge the offer. On a personal level, it was hurtful. Professionally, it was humiliating.

One of the bright spots of the winter is our darling son’s sixth birthday, on January 30, 1991. We give him a golden retriever puppy as his present. We name him Davey Dog. He becomes a member of the family. Davey lived a happy life with us until old age finally took him at fifteen. He was my friend and constant companion. I enjoyed bathing and brushing him and bringing him treats from the doggie health food store. I grew up with dogs. My parents had collies. To me, the love of a pet is an essential part of life; without it, something important is missing. I have Mozart now. He’s a mixed breed. I adopted him from Best Friends Animal Sanctuary. He’s all fuzz and personality. I think he may even have a future in television. He’s appeared in
several episodes of the reality show with Tatum and me and the camera seems to love him. Farrah was a dog lover too. When her beloved Afghan, Satchel, died, she called me from the vet’s. She was sobbing. I said, “I’m on my way.” She said, “No, we’re coming home, wait for us.” I said, “We?” She replied, “Satchel and me.” The vet wanted to dispose of him, but Farrah wouldn’t hear of it. Instead, she wrapped him in a blanket and brought him back to the house on Antelo, where we buried him together. Mariah Carey is living on that piece of property now. I wonder if I should warn her not to dig a garden in the northwest corner of the lot.

As the year progresses, there’s a steady, subtle decline in Farrah’s demeanor. She’s moody and restless and her headaches have graduated to migraines. She’s showing up late to the set and is easily distracted. I have the network discontinue the live audience, thinking it will make her less self-conscious about her comic timing. I’m searching, trying to figure out what’s wrong. A cynical woman has replaced the cheerful, optimistic girl I fell in love with.

What she needed was for me to be patient with her, reassure her that Redmond wasn’t choosing me over her, that it was normal and healthy for a boy that age to want to spend more time with his dad. But I’m a man and don’t think in those terms. I assumed she’d welcome the peace and quiet. I know she wasn’t jealous. She must have felt spurned. I still remember the expression on her face when she’d come to collect Redmond, who was sleeping on my lap, for bed, and he’d plead to be left where he was. Most every night I’d have to carry him upstairs and tuck him in. I probably should have read the copy of
Men Are from Mars, Women Are from Venus
that Farrah gave me for my birthday. And both of us should have worked at achieving a balance in our parenting styles instead of bringing the same competition we enjoyed on the racquetball court into our raising of Redmond. It wasn’t anything we did consciously, but Redmond sensed it. When I wrote the above journal entry, all I thought I knew was that Farrah was too strict with our son and that she needed to relax with him the same way she needed to loosen up at work. While I may have had a valid point, I’m realizing now that there was more to Farrah’s concern about discipline than her conservative Catholic roots or all the parenting classes she took.

She was scared to death.

We’d have arguments about how to set boundaries for Redmond: bedtime; food; respecting adults; and most vital, why rules must be obeyed. I’d defend myself by saying that I’d raised three children, that I was the experienced parent, not her. And that’s exactly what worried her. Griffin must have been a specter haunting her peace of mind, and if she was too tough on Redmond sometimes, if her voice did go shrill when she saw him doing something he shouldn’t, it was because she wanted to protect her son from a fate like his brother’s. The problem was that the stricter she was with Redmond, the less influence she had over him. A therapist could have figured this out, but Farrah and I never consulted one. My only experience with a counselor had been with Tatum when she was a teen. It was such a disaster that it soured me on the entire profession. And Farrah was a private person, reluctant to reveal herself to any stranger.

Our clashes over Redmond escalate and our fighting takes a revelatory turn. It’s not so much that’s it’s getting more severe as it is stripping us psychologically naked, removing all pretense from our relationship. We’re discovering that those same two people who once brought out the best in each other also have a frightening capacity for bringing out the worst. I remember one afternoon when we’re in the car. I said something to set her off and she starts yelling at me, which I detest, so I simply ignore her. Next thing I know, her foot is in my face and she’s pushing it into my cheek as I’m driving up Benedict Canyon, all because I wouldn’t
buckle under to her demands for disciplining our son. I was no Mahatma Gandhi either. Once, she locked herself in the bathroom and I punched my fist through the door. A piece of wood hit her in the face, cutting her above the eye. I broke a knuckle. So picture the two of us, she’s bleeding and I’ve got an ice pack on my hand. We’re both apologizing and trying not to cry. I should have recognized that none of this was normal, but after what I’d gone through with Joanna Moore, it seemed almost tame.

It was now fall, and we were swatting away disappointments like picnickers harassed by mosquitoes: Tatum gives birth to a daughter but says nothing;
Good Sports
gets canceled; Griffin is arrested again. And the elementary school we want for Redmond rejects our application. Aaron Spelling is on the board of trustees.

We start taking it out on each other.

And then the incident.

Farrah and I are in my room. We’re quietly quarreling. It devolves into a shouting match. Suddenly our six-year-old son is standing in the doorway in his Winnie-the-Pooh pajamas, staring at us. He’s holding a butcher knife. He must have climbed onto a chair and pulled the knife out of the rack on the kitchen counter. He points the tip of the blade at his chest. “I’m gonna stab myself if you don’t stop it!”

That ended the argument.

For the next hour we sat with our little boy on either side of his bed, soothing him. We told happy funny stories
and when he finally began to laugh, Farrah and I embraced, assuring him that we loved each other and he was safe.

We should have run to a family therapist’s office the very next day.

Instead I’d run to Vancouver.

N
either Farrah nor I ever acknowledged that this behavior should not have been acceptable in our family. One of us should have been the grown-up. Instead, we were two single-minded people who gave in to our baser impulses, making excuses for each other when we felt forgiving, and baiting each other when we didn’t. Our moral compass had become submerged in a sea of ego and confusion, and our sweet little boy would bear the brunt of the corrosion. He would become increasingly recalcitrant and distracted: he’d open a drawer and forget to close it; he’d lose everything, from his catcher’s mitt to his favorite pen. At school he wouldn’t make friends. Afternoons when I picked him up, I’d either find him sitting by himself or running aimlessly around the playground.

There’s an old expression: “When you’re young, the days fly and the years drag; when you’re older, the days drag and the years fly.” It’s true of relationships too. And oh how the days dragged for both Farrah and me during this period! Vancouver becomes a welcome escape. It’s now 1992. I’m on location shooting the made-for-TV movie
The Man Upstairs
with Katharine Hepburn. It’s about the unlikely
friendship that blossoms between a lonely, elderly woman and the escaped convict whom she discovers hiding in her attic. The script was developed for Katharine, and my old buddy Burt Reynolds is executive producing. Originally he was going to star in it too, but scheduling conflicts force him to assign the role to someone else, and I’m grateful he chooses me. Working with Katharine Hepburn is akin to being knighted by the queen. On set, she has a benevolent regality that puts you at ease while making you want to stand up a little bit straighter. I’d heard a lot about Katharine Hepburn when I was growing up in Hollywood, but I’d never met her. I discover she’s not the reclusive eccentric now depicted by the press. Though protective of her privacy, she’s intelligent and witty, with an endearing practical side. Unlike some movie stars who fight the aging process one plastic surgeon at a time, Katharine Hepburn’s beauty is preserved in the sanctuary of her dignity, untouched and untouchable.

Farrah and Redmond come for a few days. The recent
time apart proves a blessing as the tensions prior to my departure have quelled, and both Farrah and I strive to keep things polite and casual. For some women, diamonds are forever. For Farrah, it’s Mexican food. I’ve made arrangements with the hotel chef to serve all her favorite south-of–the-border dishes. There’s a buffet waiting in the room when she arrives. Redmond is delighted and Farrah is touched.

One of the highlights of their visit is Redmond’s foray into the world of special effects.
The Man Upstairs
is a Christmas movie. If you rent it, pay attention to the scene in which Katharine and I walk outside when it’s snowing. Notice how real it looks. Redmond was expertly tossing that fake snow down on us.

I also remember introducing Katharine to Farrah. It’s like a meeting of the goddesses. Farrah is quiet and deferential. Though she’d been in the presence of other greats, Katharine Hepburn made you catch your breath. She invites Farrah and me to her house for tea. She sends her driver of forty years to fetch us. Her housekeeper, a lovely lady who looks to be further along in years than Katharine, greets us at the door. This is Katharine Hepburn’s entourage, two sweet ancients whom she clearly cares about and who are devoted to her in turn. Katharine is a gracious host and an engaging conversationalist. In the car on the way back, Farrah puts her head on my shoulder and drifts off to sleep. I can feel the warmth of her breath on my neck, as I did on that long ago drive from Disney Ranch, and it makes me yearn
to regain the ease of those early years together. Then I think of Katharine Hepburn and that moment when she stared into the distance and began talking to Farrah and me about Spencer Tracy, and those strong shoulders slumped ever so slightly. She still missed him, as I miss Farrah today. They never married either.

Years later, Farrah would tell me that after she saw my reverence for Katharine, she understood why I watched classic movies and had such respect not just for the actors in the studio system, but for the craft itself, the directors, and the cinematographers, and that she was proud to have the same profession as Miss Hepburn, as she insisted on addressing Katharine. It comforts me to know that Farrah never regretted becoming an actress, because there were periods in our life when I worried she wished she had never left Texas. By the time 1992 rolled to a close, I’d be worried again.