Both of Us (9 page)

A
utumn brings new challenges and opportunities. Griffin leaves Habilitate vowing to stay clean, and Tatum
will soon be pregnant with her second child. She and John buy Johnny Carson’s house down the beach from me. And Farrah is about to start shooting the film version of
Extremities
. I’m holding down the domestic front and reviewing scripts in search of my next film project. I’m eager to get back to work, and though I miss acting, being a stay-at-home dad fulfills me. Feeding and changing Redmond, rocking him to sleep, bathing him, listening to his musical cooing, all remind me of my sweetest memories of Tatum. When she was an infant, we shared a private world. I couldn’t get her to fall asleep one night and I’d tried everything, so out of desperation, I placed her on the dryer after I’d just put in a load, hoping the warmth of the machine would lull her to sleep. Within moments she was comatose. It worked every time. Being with Redmond conjures up all those teary images. On one level, it gives me something hopeful to cling to during this long estrangement from my daughter, but it also makes me yearn even more for what we once had. And Tatum continues to be unpredictable. One day she’s effusive and warm, coming over to visit Farrah and me, offering to babysit her little brother; and two days later she’ll be distant and stormy, refusing to return our phone calls. I suspect some of it may be at John’s request. I can only imagine what Tatum has said, and if I were he, and the mother of my unborn child had been telling me what a bastard her dad had been all her life, I’d be inclined to put distance between my family and the father too.

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.

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.”

T
atum 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.