Leonard (28 page)

Actually, while they were shooting that episode, Leonard was asked to sign the napkin they would use. It was kind of a gag for the cast, which he did gladly. That napkin, now framed, hangs over the main set of the show.

That voiceover was Spock's last appearance on TV, although he was always with Leonard. I remember Leonard telling me one day he'd met Barack Obama. This was sometime in 2008, just after Obama had announced his candidacy. It was not surprising that Leonard was invited to a luncheon to meet him. I suspect it pleased him a great deal, given his lifelong political activism, that a young African American would be a serious candidate for the presidency. It was a small group of people at someone's home—a typical politician's meet-and-greet and by the way do you have your checkbook with you. But as Leonard told the story, “We were standing on the back patio, waiting for him. He came in and walked through the house, and then he saw me. He stopped—and held up his hand with his fingers separated, the Vulcan gesture. And he smiled, big smile, and said, ‘They told me you were here.' We had a very enjoyable conversation, and when we were done we shook hands, and I told him, ‘It would be logical if you would become president.'”

He did play one final role; that of a scientist living in an alternate universe in J. J. Abrams's TV show
Fringe.
When asked why he took this role, Leonard explained, “I did not intend to do any more work. And the fact is I don't consider this work. This is great fun.” The show, which ran for five seasons, is a future-fiction drama concerning the crime-solving exploits of the FBI's little-known Fringe Division. The show is a little bit of a lot of shows, everything from
The X-Files, Altered States, The Twilight Zone,
and cop procedurals like
CSI
. While Leonard's character figured prominently in the plot, he appeared only as a voice; the writers came up with clever ideas when his physical presence was necessary, including an animated episode and a storyline in which he possesses another body.

After the first two seasons, Leonard felt his character, William Bell, had become too nice a person, which left him, as an actor, no place interesting to take the character. But then the writers twisted perceptions, turning Bell into a mostly evil character—and regaining Leonard's interest enough for him to agree to make a surprise appearance on the show. “J. J. Abrams is a friend of mine,” he said. “When he calls, I listen. I'm still a sucker for a good role, so it was pretty easy to convince me that there was an interesting challenge in the character. It allowed me to play aspects of a character that I haven't played in a long time.” One last time, he got to play the villain.

 

FOURTEEN

The details fade over time. Where we ate dinner, appearances we made together, arguments with the studio. The countless days and nights Leonard and I spent together become blurred into larger memories. When I think about Leonard, my memories are emotional more than specific. How lucky I have been to have shared this adventure with him, my “Siamese twin,” my “brother from another mother,” my best friend.

Between the photography and the jobs and writing poetry and working around the house and speaking engagements and appearing at the occasional convention, where the entire crew was treated like royalty, he led a full life. But his focus had changed. Like all of us do, he had made promises to himself many years earlier. “If I ever make it, if I ever make a living, if I ever become solid, I will do this and that.” But like the rest of us, that place of contentment was always after the next job, after the next success. Until his disease began to slow him down, he never got there. And then, when he couldn't work as much as he wanted, when he couldn't travel as much as he wanted, he finally arrived at that lifelong destination.

He had decided to major in family, to heal whatever last rifts still existed. We talked about it, publicly, and he admitted, “We have spent the last several years consciously trying, at least I have, and I think my son and my daughter have felt the same, trying to build a new relationship.”

“We learned to appreciate each other,” Adam remembers. “He spent more time at home than ever before, and he would sit there and tell stories. Just about every other weekend we'd have the kind of big family dinners that we hadn't had too much in the past. There was a lot of love there that we all finally were able to express.”

Unfortunately, tragedy also can often be the thing that brings people closer together. In 2008, as Adam Nimoy was putting his life back together, he met a woman he describes as “loving and joyful. A woman with no agenda.” Like so many parents, Leonard and Susan wondered if Adam had become sober and put his life together because of this woman, or if he had been able to meet this woman—Martha was her name—because of the changes he was making in his life. After getting to know Martha, one night Leonard and Susan called to tell Adam how much they liked her, and how happy they were about the impact she was making on his life—especially the fact that his relationship with his father and Susan had changed so dramatically. At a different time that might have become a point of contention; Adam was proud of the hard work he'd done on his own to change his life. “But I didn't say anything about that. I simply said, ‘I really appreciate the phone call, and I am really happy about my relationship with you guys too.'”

Martha did bring her joy into all their lives, and in January 2011, Adam and Martha were married. Four months later, Martha was diagnosed with terminal cancer. As Adam recalled, “When my first marriage ended in 2004 and I moved out of my house, I didn't even call my dad. When Martha was diagnosed four months after we married, the first call I made was to my father.”

For the next year and a half, the whole family fought the disease, and as Adam remembers, Leonard and Susan were there “every step of the way. We were lucky; my Directors Guild insurance paid for everything. I didn't need financial help; I needed emotional support, and I got it. Nobody kept me going more than they did. They were both physically and emotionally supportive. They brought food. They visited. They did anything and everything possible to help us. It was a complete turnaround.”

Adam became Martha's caregiver. “It's an extremely difficult thing to do,” he said. “You need support; you need a lot of support. I had it. Martha's mother, my sister, Julie, people at UCLA where I was teaching, and the twelve-step groups that I was part of. But the lengths my dad and Susan were willing to go to, to help me, were amazing. Through this time we formed a whole new relationship.”

On December 9, 2012, Martha died. Her legacy, in some way, was to bring Leonard and Adam closer, perhaps, than they had ever been as adults.

By that time, though, Leonard's own mortality was beginning to show. It's impossible for me to remember the first time I truly understood the toll Leonard's disease was taking on him. I remember sharing a car one afternoon that was to take us to a venue where we would make another appearance together. It was something we'd done countless times, and always both of us had walked briskly wherever we were going. Get there, get it going, have fun, get it done. But this time as we walked, Leonard had to stop and lean against the wall to catch his breath. Over time, those stops became more frequent. Then there would be an oxygen tank with us in the car. His illness made him angry. He'd curse it, “Goddamn it.” Then he would shake his head despairingly and ask me again and again, “Why didn't you stop me from smoking?”

I can't begin to express the feeling of helplessness I felt. This was one of the most active people I have ever known, and his world was shrinking rapidly. And there was nothing at all I could do. The very last thing Leonard wanted from me was sympathy.

For an actor, this disease is a special kind of horror. An actor's voice is his or her most important tool. It is an instrument as much as any flute or tuba. It can carry an audience from Shakespeare's London to Leonard's Vulcan. Acting begins in the lungs, where your voice is manufactured. As you breathe air out, it strums against your vocal cords to create your unique sound; if you don't have the air, there is no strumming, and you are robbed of your voice. For an actor, losing your voice means losing your career. A lot of actors take their voices for granted; it's always going to be there—until it isn't.

Richard Arnold, who spent considerable time with Leonard organizing conventions and appearances, remembers noticing the first real symptoms of Leonard's COPD as far as back as 2006. “He began having to clear his throat more often. You'd hear just a little
ahem
when he was talking, then progressively it got worse. One afternoon we were in his office while he signed memorabilia, and his voice was really rasping. I'd heard that before, but never this bad. I got worried and I asked him, ‘Leonard, are you okay?'

“He smiled and reached across the desk, put his hand gently on top of mine, and said, ‘Richard, I was a really good smoker.' For thirty years he had smoked two packs of cigarettes a day, and finally it was taking its toll. Over time, he became really raspy, and his breathing difficulties became more obvious. When I would see him, he had clips in his nose connecting him to an oxygen tank.”

Leonard attended his last
Star Trek
convention in Chicago in October 2011. Leonard had finally accepted the fact that these trips were too difficult for him. For the first time, he brought his entire family with him; Susan, his children, grandchildren, and his one great-grandchild. He hired two shuttle buses to move them around the city. It was a very dramatic situation. Zachary Quinto had put together a video tribute in which everyone from J. J. Abrams,and several other actors from the more recent
Star Trek
films acknowledged their debt to him as well as their appreciation and admiration. As Leonard was being introduced, he stood backstage, by himself, fighting the tears. And then he walked on stage to a huge, huge standing ovation. The packed arena was telling Leonard how much he was loved; and he had the joy of knowing it.

It was not his last appearance at a convention, though. He continued to get large offers to attend one final convention. Then one more after that. Organizers were willing to pay him far more for showing up for a few hours than we had been paid for the entire three years it took to make the series. As Richard Arnold told him when relaying these offers, “This one could pay for your great-grandson's entire education.”

“I know,” he said, “but that's already taken care of.”

For someone like Leonard, who was never still, it must have been so difficult to turn down these offers. Not for the money—the money was wonderful—but for the chance to share with legions of fans just one more time. It isn't possible to explain what it feels like to be standing—or in our case, sitting—on that stage. Leonard knew, and I knew, and Patrick Stewart and a few other people know that feeling. But being at one of those conventions, standing in front of that audience, feeling their energy and their love, is as close to understanding “the force” as any of us will ever come.

Someone came up with the means to overcome Leonard's physical limitations; Leonard could appear at a convention being held in Florida on Skype. The promoters sent technicians to his home, and they set up the system on his desk. There was a wonderful irony to it; the kind of space-age technology that was featured in the original series but did not exist in reality was making it possible for him to talk about it. He'd have his talk, then the fans lined up in front of a computer at the site, and as they said their names, he signed a photo for each one of them. They received them the next day.

“It was terrific,” Leonard said, then added, “I didn't even have to get dressed!”

He kept telling organizers, “That's it; I'm retired,” but he could never resist just one more project. Work was in his DNA. He was as addicted to creating as he once had been to cigarettes. And so he never did really, really, really fully retire. There was always just one more appearance, one more project that interested him or engaged his curiosity. Among those last projects in which was he was enthusiastically involved was a memorable trip back to Boston. As a way of thanking his father for everything he had done, Adam proposed a short documentary, and the two of them went back to Boston and filmed
Leonard Nimoy's Boston
. It started out meant to be a family album, but turned into a PBS special.

Watching Leonard's enthusiasm as he shares the stories and places of his childhood with his son made me pause and remember the Leonard I had known for so long, the young and energetic Leonard, easing into stardom. “This is where I learned to sail … I worked here stacking chairs … I passed by this church every day of my life … we lived on the third floor, right over Harry Rubin's Credit Union … There was one building, a few blocks away, that had an elevator.” And then, typical Leonard, he spoke with warmth about his own parents, telling a story I had never heard, but knowing him so well a story that did not surprise me at all. One night, he and a friend had worked till close to midnight folding chairs at the band shell, and he was coming home with the two dollars he'd earned when he met his mother and father, who were worried and had come looking for him. “My mother said, ‘Where have you been?' ‘We were stacking chairs.' ‘This late?' ‘Yeah, we just finished.' I handed over the two dollars. My father grabbed it out of my hand and tore the two dollars in pieces. He was so angry because she was upset, and that upset him. He couldn't take it.

“So she picked up the torn pieces. She wasn't going to let the two dollars go. We walked home in silence.”

And then, near the end of this wonderful twenty-eight-minute documentary, Leonard became a bit melancholy, remembering the West End neighborhood that had been torn down, his childhood lost to urban renewal, and he said wistfully, “I miss Boston. It was a good place to be.”