Both of Us (15 page)

The yearning for normalcy usually parallels the trajectory of one’s fame. For Farrah, I think it started in Paris on location for
Nazi Hunter
, and by the time we were living in Coldwater Canyon, I could sense that longing growing larger within her, making her want to escape from everything.

Speaking of wanting to escape, I just got home from New York, where Tatum and I did the publicity junket for our reality show. And I thought the LA earthquake was a disaster!

B
ack to 1994. It’s late spring. Farrah is in Vancouver filming
Man of the House
with Chevy Chase, a light-hearted Disney comedy about a boy who doesn’t want a new stepfather in his territory. I’ve just landed a role in the movie
Faithful
, with Cher and Chazz Palminteri. Directed by my old chum Paul Mazursky, it’s a black comedy about a wife who turns the tables on her husband who’s hired a hit man to knock her off. I’m the husband. For some bewildering reason Paul Mazursky reminds me of Barbra Streisand, both interesting filmmakers. It helped that I had worked with Streisand before I did
Barry Lyndon
with Stanley Kubrick. They
had the same work ethic, perfectionists and as demanding on themselves as they were on the cast and crew.

Faithful
is being filmed on location in New York and I decide to visit Farrah in Vancouver on my roundabout way to the East Coast. It will almost prove the unraveling of what for years had been our magic carpet.

This is another part of our love story that’s difficult to talk about, so please bear with me. Between you and me, I’m not sure my memory is perfect. I can only tell you how I recall events. And I don’t think it matters whether I get the dates in exact order. What does matter is that something malignant was about to steal into my relationship with Farrah, something that had never bedeviled us before: cheating. The dates are secondary. What did and did not happen
and how we felt about it is primary. We let loose the jealousy genie, and once it was out of the bottle, we would both be condemned to live with its torment.

James Orr is directing
Man of the House
. Farrah introduces us. He’s the kind of guy who has an unnecessarily firm handshake. He’s not wearing a tie, and he’s left the top three buttons of his shirt open. He’s trying to prove something. I don’t know what it is, but I’m neither impressed nor trusting. She’s too comfortable around him. Though I tell myself I’m letting my imagination get the better of me, I can’t help wondering if there’s something going on between them. On the plane to New York, I feel sick.

For the next four months I throw myself into work on
Faithful
, grateful for the distraction. After Farrah wraps on
Man of the House
, she visits me on the set for a few days. While I’m still smoldering with suspicion, I keep my doubts about Farrah’s fidelity to myself. I wish I could say that I held my tongue for practical reasons, such as it would have been unprofessional for me to engage in that kind of conversation with her when I was in the middle of making a movie. Truth is, I didn’t say anything because to look her in the eye and ask her whether she was with James Orr would have made it real. The longer I avoided the question, the longer I could go on pretending it was only my imagination. Farrah sensed I was being icy but didn’t try to thaw me. When I finally do muster the courage to confront her, she’ll deny it. Though she would get involved with Orr later in 1997
after we break up, with disastrous consequences, she always insisted that nothing happened before that. There’s a part of me that wants to believe her, and another that can’t. It’s only now that I’m able to put away my ego and appreciate just how extraordinary our relationship was, which is why looking back I have to make certain judgments, regardless of how painful. It’s taken me all these years to realize there’s no such thing as a perfect relationship, but true love, anointed by human frailty and nourished by forgiveness and acceptance, does exist. And Farrah and I had it. We just took a long time to realize it.

Farrah’s visit to the set of
Faithful
is marred by resentments and insecurities on both sides. At first I can’t understand why she keeps asking me if I have a thing for Cher. I’d known Cher for years. She has a house down the street in Malibu. She was one of Tatum’s early adult friends and we’ve always had a nice rapport. But I’ve never been remotely attracted to the woman (not that she isn’t appealing); indeed, there was never any chemistry for either of us. I find myself starting to wonder if Farrah’s irrational concern about Cher is the by-product of a guilty conscience. I become convinced Farrah cheated on me. I envision her lying next to James Orr, sharing a private joke, laughing and cuddling in the way that I believed was mine alone. I start obsessing about Vancouver, replaying every detail in my head like video footage on a loop, the way she leaned into him when they spoke, the abrupt change in their body language
whenever I walked into the room, the furtive glances, the whispered exchanges. The boxer in me wanted to beat the tar out of this guy and reclaim my woman. Instead I buried my anger and pretended we could get past it, and Farrah became the great enabler, equally as determined not to deal with it. Neither of us played fair. Neither of us was capable of self-criticism. So we let it go. After she leaves, I reassure myself that everything will return to normal once the renovations on the little house are complete and we’re back in familiar surroundings. Now, at seventy years old, I’ve come to understand that normal is the cuttlefish of illusions, that we each create our own normal that can change at will, and it is almost never what we expect.

By the end of 1994, we’ve moved out of the rental on Coldwater Canyon and have settled into the guesthouse on Antelo, splitting our time between there and the beach. Even in the stained light of loss, we could still pretend we were one of Hollywood’s golden couples. When the paparazzi asked kindly, we’d pose. The invitations to awards ceremonies arrived. We stopped to sign autographs outside our favorite restaurants. And we were asked to make appearances at all the big charitable events and endorse a dizzying array of products. We did little or none of this. Though we always smiled for the cameras and at each other, behind closed doors we were living a different reality. We didn’t trust each other anymore. James Orr may have been a reason, but he was not the cause. If Farrah did have an affair,
it’s time for me to take a hard look at how I may have been complicit. I don’t want to fool myself. I want to make peace with the truth. I drove her away and neither one of us possessed the confidence to have that conversation that would have allowed us to make amends. These two lately discovered letters say it well.

If we had an argument, we might kiss and make up, which is what we did after exchanging these letters, but underneath, resentment built. I wish I would have taken Farrah by the hand, sat her down, and forced us both to take responsibility for how we’d treated each other. It could have prevented a lot of heartache. And there would be much more in the coming months, and not just for Farrah and me, but for Tatum too.

By the new year, she and John have divorced, leaving a trail of tabloid scat in their wake. It had been coming for a while. But I don’t need to get into all those details. My daughter has written two books on the subject. Speaking as her dad, the failure of her marriage was deeply disappointing. Though you know how I feel about John, I really did believe he’d be the anchor my daughter needed. Instead, she went overboard and soon found herself dragged under in a sea of drugs and alcohol. Next, Tatum would be embroiled in a bitter custody battle. John would eventually triumph. If Tatum’s listening, she won’t like hearing this, but I don’t blame my former son-in-law for fighting for his kids the way he did. In fact, I respect him for it. No father wants to yank his children away from their mom. It’s a gut-wrenching fight and everyone loses a part of her- or himself on the battlefield. I ought to know. I went after Joanna for custody of Tatum and Griffin, twice, for the same reason John had to duke it out with Tatum. I had no choice. At the time, my ex-wife was washing down half a bottle of barbiturates a day with vodka. And this was back in the early seventies when the courts favored the mother even if she was unfit. “Let’s give her another chance,” the judge said. To Joanna’s credit, when she realized she was hopelessly addicted, she showed up on my doorstep in Malibu and handed me our kids, then checked into a hospital. Tatum was seven years old and Griffin was six. I can only imagine how hard that was for Joanna, and to this day, I don’t know whether either of my
children appreciates the courage that decision took. The rest of the story gets more complicated, with fundamental disagreement between my children and me over the specifics of how it unfolded. I can only say this: Joanna and I made some dreadful mistakes as parents, and I hope that one day my children will be able to forgive us, as they would want their own children to forgive them.

That was about forty years ago. My daughter inherited her mother’s predilection for addiction but not her wisdom or compassion. And it was always either/or with Tatum. She was unfamiliar with subtlety. Innocent of nuance. Tatum is still tearing holes in her world and unfortunately her world at the moment is also mine. I promised to tell you what happened in New York. Brace yourself. I’ll set the scene for you.

It’s midafternoon exactly one week ago today. I’m sitting in the greenroom at CNN watching my daughter tape her interview with Piers Morgan. The “greenroom” is where talk show guests are parked until they go on camera. Some, like David Letterman’s, are lavish, with soft leather couches, an elaborate buffet. and a fridge stocked with beverages; others, you’re lucky if you can get a cup of water. At least this one has fresh hot coffee and bagels. I wish it had a dispenser of knockout drops alongside the cream and sugar. I can’t believe what’s coming out of my daughter’s mouth. She’s telling Piers that she first started experimenting with drugs at eleven years old. She knows that’s not true! He’s now inquiring if I supplied her with the drugs. “You’ll have to ask him,”
she replies. Ask
him
? He doesn’t need to ask me! Tatum, you and I both know the answer to that question is no! At this point, I’m hollering at the TV screen. A network page comes running in to ask if everything is all right. “Are you listening to this?” I say. “She’s rewriting history! She hated drugs when she was little!” The page nods politely.

I turn my attention back to the show, trying to ignore the nagging question now hovering at the back of my mind: Could she actually have been doing drugs that young? Could I have been so clueless that I missed it? I remember after I got full custody, I put both Tatum and Griffin into a private school and she hated it there, started stealing and getting into trouble. I took her out of that school, and soon after we went into production on
Paper Moon
, where she had a tutor. No, I tell myself firmly. I may not have been the best father, certainly not a perfect one, but I would have known it if she was chewing Quaaludes at eleven. She probably thinks it looks better if her drug problem was a lifelong struggle rather than something that happened to her as an adult. I’m guessing, grasping, trying to come up with a reason why my daughter would misrepresent about something like this. Now my child is telling Piers to remember to speak up when he interviews me because I’m old and don’t hear too well anymore. Well, young lady, I certainly heard that! Then, tossing back her hair, Tatum looks into the camera, smiles coquettishly, and adds, “I don’t think my father can see too well anymore either.” So I’m not only going deaf, I’m also going
blind?
I
stand up and begin shaking the television screen. The page has now picked up the phone and is calling for backup. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating a little, but I want to flee. But then I realize I’ve made this commitment and in fifteen minutes I’ll have to face Piers Morgan myself and answer questions I’d rather not even hear. I ask Farrah to give me strength and take several deep meditative breaths to calm down. By the time the sound tech arrives to attach my mike, I feel confident and ready. Besides, I tell myself, it can’t go any worse than
Good Morning America
, the day before. At least this interview is taped and I’m going on alone.
Good Morning America
was live and Tatum and I were interviewed together. And this time, I’m wearing comfortable clothing, a favorite dark jacket over my lucky blue shirt, not that ridiculous suit and tie they forced me to wear on ABC. Let me say that I’m not now nor have I ever been a “morning person.” I wore that suit only because it was so early I was only half awake, without the wit to resist. When I saw the segment, I was mortified. I looked like a buffoon in that thing, not to mention that my face was still puffy with sleep, and in my haste to be on time, I’d failed to comb my hair. In the days of yore, you’d never catch Cary Grant or Bill Holden with bags under their eyes squinting into a camera in the wee hours, plugging their latest project. They had too much dignity. And Tatum and I were both so stiff and uncomfortable with each other, the interviewer actually had to ask us on air to sit closer together. This time, I reassure myself, I’ll have more control.