My Son Marshall, My Son Eminem (14 page)

Marshall and Kim returned an hour or so later, full of smiles. They’d arrived at 5:10 p.m. Apparently, the building stayed open late specially because Marshall was now such a big star.

Looking back, I’m amazed word didn’t leak about the celebrity wedding. After all, Saint Joseph isn’t exactly big on stars. It’s known as the birthplace of the Hollywood actress and one-time Mrs. Ronald Reagan, Jane Wyman; the home of the Pony Express; and the town where the outlaw Jesse James died.

I tried a different tack. Marshall wanted a tiny wedding, with just me and our taxi-owner-friend Bill Hill as witnesses. I asked him to at least let his manager, Paul Rosenberg, know about it. I was pretty sure Paul would put a stop to the wedding. But Marshall refused to call him.

That night when Kim went out to the store, I begged Marshall not to marry her. I couldn’t tell him that Kim had made vomiting gestures behind his back, but I wanted him to know I didn’t approve. They’d been breaking up and making up for almost twelve years.

Kim’s parents hated Marshall. They’d banned him so many times from their house and told him he wasn’t worthy of her. Now he was desperate to prove himself to them. He was no longer a struggling nohoper who’d got their daughter pregnant. He had fame and money beyond his wildest dreams.

“I’m going to marry Kim,” he said. “She loves me. We have a child together. Be happy, please, Mom. I want your blessing.”

My problem is, I’ve never been able to say no to Marshall when he looks at me from under those long dark eyelashes. He’s played me since the moment he was born. He knows I’ll do anything to make him happy.

I told Marshall I had nothing to wear, even though I knew it wasn’t much of an excuse. He yanked open my closet doors, pulling out my clothes.

“How about this?” he asked, dragging out the long blue sleeveless gown I’d worn for my wedding to John Briggs the year before. I shook my head. I was in the midst of divorcing Briggs, and I had no intention of ever wearing that dress again.

Marshall zeroed in on a gold-sequined gown I’d bought cheap from a tuxedo rental place that was going out of business. He held it up and said he loved it. Again I protested. The dress was completely inappropriate for a wedding. But Marshall said it was perfect.

The next few days zipped by in a flurry of activity. Sharon Spiegel, the minister at South Park Church who’d officiated at my marriage to Briggs as well as at Tanya’s wedding, agreed to conduct a small, simple ceremony. I was to stand up for Marshall; Bill would stand up for Kim. Nathan and Hailie were to be the only other guests.

The 15th of June dawned bright and sunny. Marshall drove Kim to the church. I followed with Nathan and Hailie ten minutes later. When I walked into the small brick building, it was packed. Mom was there with Dutch. There was Tanya and her new husband, Lynard; her son Jonathan, his wife, and their two children; my half-sister, Betti Renee; her husband, Jack; their three kids; and my aunts Terri and Martha. Kim had invited them all. But at least her mother, Kathy; her stepdad, Casey; and her twin sister, Dawn, weren’t there.

I can barely remember the ceremony, I was so upset. There were no hymns, and I don’t recall a sermon. I focused on Sharon’s clothes. She wore a long dark skirt, shirt, and sweater.

Kim had on a black micro-mini and a short cropped top. According to those sitting in the church, she didn’t appear to be wearing any underwear.

After Marshall said “I do,” he picked up Hailie and held her in his arms for the rest of the service. Needless to say, Kim did not promise to obey Marshall.

The tears that had started trickling down my cheeks at the start of the ceremony were now cascading in waves. I could not stop crying. My legs felt like jelly; I could barely stand. I looked at Marshall, and I just knew I had lost my son.

There wasn’t a reception as such. Instead we just headed to the drinking establishment where Tanya and Lynard had had their after-wedding party. Everyone but me was drinking. The bar owner closed the bar to the public so the newlyweds could have the place exclusively. He was also playing most of my son’s music. I danced with Marshall, then I took Hailie home. I couldn’t stand it any longer.

After the wedding, Marshall bought his first home. He was quoted in the press as saying the nearby trailer park reminded him of his roots. Later he told me he’d been misquoted; he had no idea there were mobile homes behind his mansion.

He also promised me they’d left my house in Casco Township clean and—after one earlier misunderstanding when he’d missed a payment because he was touring—there were no outstanding bills. But I got my brother Todd to go over to check after they’d moved out. There were eviction notices stuck to the door and a pile of unpaid bills scattered around inside. The surrounding grass was tall and Todd had to cut it too.

Three police officers, called to the house by neighbors thinking Todd was an intruder, wanted to know if Eminem, the famous rapper, lived there. Todd tried to protect him, saying he thought some of Marshall’s friends had been staying there while he was on the road.

I called Kim and asked what was going on.

“We don’t want your damn trailer!” she snapped.

Her words cut me to the quick. It wasn’t a trailer: it was a big mobile home with a master bedroom and a bathroom en suite, and two other bedrooms. Now Kim had dumped out all my belongings, along with Marshall’s drawings and demo tapes. She’d even thrown away home videos of her and Marshall. I told Todd to grab everything he could for safekeeping.

I jumped in my car for the 900-mile journey back to Michigan. The eviction notices and unpaid bills were all in my name. I needed a lawyer to sort everything out, to stop the repossession.

Fred Gibson had a big advert in the Yellow Pages, so I called, introduced myself, and said I needed help. He invited me to his office in Sterling Heights, telling me to bring over all the eviction documents. He was calm, assuring me he’d stop the foreclosure.

I turned up at Gibson’s office a few hours later. It was a tall building, four or five stories high, and I was impressed because he appeared to have an entire floor. Gibson was well over six feet, with dark-brown hair and a small moustache. He was well groomed, wearing an immaculate dress shirt and tie. He peered at me over his spectacles as I told him about the eviction notices and the trouble Kim had caused. He asked me about Marshall and I told him all about the horrible
Rolling Stone
story. Gibson had not heard of Eminem at first, as he was just breaking out at the time.

Gibson was sympathetic. He’s babyfaced, boyish-looking. He seemed so nice, telling me he’d sort out the foreclosure and clear my name with the credit agencies.

Then he asked me to drop off the magazine articles so he could research and get up to date on everything. Afterwards I drove to the house to meet an auctioneer. He was picking through the place, clutching tapes, a hairbrush, and several toothbrushes. He wanted to know if they were Marshall’s. He didn’t say Marshall, of course. It was Eminem he was interested in. He seemed to think the stuff was valuable and could be sold at auction. Later, Kim tried to hold up the auction. Eventually it was held midweek when hardly anyone was around. Kim demanded that I split the proceeds from the sale of the house with her. I tried to tell her I had to pay off the bank first, and that there probably wouldn’t be much left over. She immediately called Marshall to tell him I was selling the place and planned to ask him if he would sign his name on the wall for the new buyer. Once again she was starting trouble for me.

For the first time it hit me: Marshall really was famous.

A few days later I drove back to Gibson’s office with the magazines. I was keen to return to Saint Joseph, so he had me sign some papers. I filled in the usual details—my name, address, date of birth, Social Security number. Then I scrawled my signature, shook his hand, and left.

Every so often Gibson faxed me to say things were going well. When I phoned, he’d reassure me, saying, “I’m the lawyer, let me do my job.”

On September 17, Marshall called me, screaming abuse.

He shouted, “You’re trying to take the food out of my daughter’s mouth!”

I asked him to calm down. He was angrier than I’d ever heard him before. What, he demanded to know, was I thinking? Why was I suing him for ten million dollars? I had no idea what he was talking about. Then Nathan started yelling at me to turn up the television. I was all over the news: I was suing Marshall for defamation and emotional distress. I was in shock—and I felt like my life was spinning out of control.