When I first got wind of the marital interloper, I practically opened my own detective agency. No pants pocket was left unturned, no ticket stub unexamined. Back when I had had my affair with a married man—I was single, he was married—it never occurred to me what it would be like if the shoe were on the other foot. Now I knew: It was hellish. I was outraged, betrayed, devastated, humiliated. As ye sow, so shall ye reap.
Jonathan and I separated twice as a result. The first time I was busy, which was probably a good thing. I was doing back-to-back plays, one in Boston and one in Edmonton, Canada. I had just finished a couple films and needed a theater fix as well as some distance from my damaged marriage.
First I did Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf at Hasty Pudding Theatricals in Boston. Larry Arrick was directing. At the outset he nearly changed his mind about using me as Martha, the troubled female lead. But I called and said, “I need to do this. I am doing this. I’m coming. Just get ready.”
Now, I didn’t know this guy from a hole in the wall, but I knew in my core that the play was just what I needed, for distraction and to keep up my chops. So off to Boston I went, with my little darlings in tow. Rejection was not an option.
Soon the twins and I settled in at the Mount Auburn House at Harvard, along with Vivianne and Bubby. I really enjoyed working with Larry: another director, another approach. The first time we sat down for a reading, he said, “This is not the Bible.” He was trying to tell us that Albee’s text wasn’t the most precious thing in the world. He took the idolatry out of that famous work, reminding us that it was “just” a really good play and that we should approach it like a really good play, instead of “My God! Virginia Woolf! A classic!”
Still, it was an honor when the playwright Edward Albee came out to see our production.
After that play Larry asked me to come to Edmonton, Alberta, for two months to do a two-character play called Lay of the Land, opposite the lovely Michael Hogan. The play was good, but I spent the entire first act talking to a chair. Now I wanted to work, but a chair? I was so desperate that I would have taken a walk-on role in an after-school special to keep from doing the play. But here I was, talking to an empty chair for an entire act.
After opening night Larry flew immediately to New York for another job. We were left with our stage manager, a very proper Englishman who said the same thing every night:
“And that is the close of the show. Matinee tomorrow at two.”
That was the extent of his feedback. No more, no less. We weren’t told if we needed to pick up the pace or whether I wasn’t concentrating in the first act. Nothing. So every night after the show, Michael and I held a version of this conversation:
SALLY: I didn’t feel so good in the second act.
MICHAEL: No? I thought you were good.
SALLY: Really?
MICHAEL: Yeah.
SALLY: Okay, let’s go have a drink.
And the next night, in reverse:
MICHAEL: I didn’t feel so good in the second act.
SALLY: No? I thought you were good.
MICHAEL: Really?
SALLY: Yeah.
MICHAEL: Okay, let’s go have a drink.
We did eight shows a week. Thank God that, at end of those two months, Michael and I really liked each other. Neither of us knew another soul in Edmonton.
While we were in Edmonton I had the kids in preschool, where they studied Halloween in class for two months and played in the snow. When I didn’t have a matinee, I’d be home with them. Mondays we were dark, and though I was half-dead on those days off, I dragged along like a zombie behind them as they rode their bikes or whatever.
See? You can have it all.
Then Jonathan, the last person I wanted to see, showed up with some crushing news: Richard Martini, Luana’s partner, had told Jonathan that she only had a year to live. I refused to believe him. I finished out my run, then hurried home to face whatever awaited me there.
Luana had breast cancer. She had decided to reject traditional medical care in favor of holistic treatments. Both her mother and her aunt had died of breast cancer, and she had seen what they had gone through. I would have loved to have screamed, “Luana, please go to a hospital!” But for the first time in my life I just shut up and supported her decision. She was determined to handle things in her own way.
Doctors warned her not to go to Mexico for an alternative treatment, but Luana didn’t listen. She came back crippled. It was so clear that no matter what anybody said, this was what she needed to do. If she was going to die, she was going to do it on her own terms, making her own choices.
From my earliest days as an actor, when we shared secrets in the closet of my first apartments, Luana had always been there for me. I’d call her up crying, and she’d say, “Do you need me? I’ll be right there.” Now I was grateful to have the chance to do something for her.
That Thanksgiving, when I was just sitting down to dinner with my fourteen guests, the phone rang. It was Luana.
“Sally,” she said weakly, “I need you to come clean the cat boxes.”
“I have a house full of people,” I told her.
“I need you to do this,” she insisted.
I was glad. It was a gift that Luana was asking me for such a simple thing. I had longed so much to help her, but how you can help someone so ill? You can’t ease the pain. You can’t dispel the fear. You can’t cure the illness. But this I could do.
So I left my guests to eat their turkey and dashed over to Mar del Vista, where Luana lived. When I arrived at her beautiful little Craftsman home, the cat boxes did, indeed, need changing badly, and I took care of it. I loved having that time with her. When she asked me if I could get her some water, I teased her gently.
“Well, okay,” I said, “but you know that means I’ll have to touch the glass.”
For as long as I can remember, Luana never liked anyone to touch food on her plate—it almost brought her to tears. I always assumed it came from her childhood in foster homes.
To the end of her days Luana was so well loved. By Richard Martini, with whom she had had such a wonderful relationship, by Jack Nicholson, by Morgan Ames, by Charles Grodin, by Jonathan and me. When I told Jennifer Jones about Lu, she jumped on board immediately, providing nurses for Luana so she could die at home. We all helped out as best we could.
One night something woke me up. I opened my eyes and saw Luana lying sideways right in front of me, with a beautiful smile on her face. I looked at the clock to make sure I was awake. When I looked back, she was gone.
I went back to sleep, and a few hours later the phone rang. It was Richard. Luana had died. I was so glad that she had come to say good-bye. She looked so peaceful.
JONATHAN AND I WERE SEPARATED IN EARLY 1994 WHEN I went off to Paris to shoot Prêt-à-Porter with Bob Altman, a film about murder, mystery, and backstabbing during Paris fashion week. The usual suspects, Bubby, Vivianne, and the kids, came along with me. None of them had been to Paris, and I was excited to show it to them. We arrived in February, and Jack asked, “How come there are no trees in Pairs?” But soon spring had sprung.
On the first day of production I stopped by the offices, excited to see Bob. But when I caught my first glimpse of him, he had his back to me. Oh my God, I thought. He was so thin and frail. He looked like he was dying. He was having some health issues, he said, but he would take care of everything after we finished shooting.
Then, my first day on the set I was so nervous. I just did Virginia Woolf! I thought. Why am I so insecure? And I was with Bob, my favorite director of all time. But the cast of that film was stellar enough to intimidate anyone: Sophia Loren, Marcello Mastroianni, Julia Roberts, Tim Robbins, Tracy Ullman, Stephen Rea, Kim Basinger, Linda Hunt, Rupert Everett, Richard Grant, Forest Whitaker, Lili Taylor, Lauren Bacall—what a lineup. No wonder I was shaking in my boots, standing there on set.
Just then, who should arrive but Sophia Loren, flanked by a posse of press. It was Fashion Wee
k in Paris, and we were supposed to be there watching the shows while Bob filmed us for the movie. Sophia walked up and grabbed my hand.
“Sally, you are my daughter,” she said. “Come with me.”
I didn’t know Sophia at all, but I loved her instantly. She walked me through the maze of photographers (who were really there to shoot her more than anyone). She proved to be as warm and generous and playful as she is stunning.
Once I got over my initial attack of nerves, I loved making that picture. The whole experience of being in Paris with my kids and working with all these fabulous talents—not to mention Bob and his darling wife, Kathryn—was invigorating. Bob’s pictures never had big budgets to pay actors, but we all wanted to work with him. He was that brilliant.
And what fun we had. Richard Grant babysat Jack and Hanna, building couch-cushion forts and letting them pretend to be dogs, drinking milk out of bowls on the floor. I had a beautiful suite with blue-and-white étoile curtains and a balcony overlooking the Champs-Élysées that was just high enough so I could see everyone without them seeing me. On my days off I’d walk the children in their double stroller across Paris to Miss Lennen’s bilingual school.
Kathryn Altman hosted dinners, serving fried chicken, chili, and potpies so we wouldn’t feel lonely away from home. On the weekends there might be thirty of us or ten, but those dinners were always interesting. Other nights, after shooting, a lot of us would duck into this quiet little restaurant we had nicknamed “the Val,” with red-checked tablecloths, and I’d sit down to a plate of sautéed spinach, pommes frites, and a glass of red wine. Perfection.
During the shoot Bob flew Lauren Bacall and me back from Paris on the Concorde to take part in an event honoring him at New York’s Lincoln Center. Lily Tomlin, Robin Williams, Jack Lemmon, Susan Sarandon, Tim Robbins, Keith Carradine, and others all took the stage to talk about working with Bob and to give him a little good-natured ribbing. Keith Carradine opened the festivities and then I was next. I told a story about Bob and me after M*A*S*H, when he asked me to test for a film. Then he said he’d rather hang himself than do the film with me. There was a lot of laughter that night, but mostly I just enjoyed talking about Bob. When I went back to my seat, Jack Lemmon grabbed me and said, “No one will top you tonight.” I was riding high. Everyone had great stories, and when they showed clips of Bob’s films, it was evident why he was so revered, so loved.
That’s what I loved about Bob: his films didn’t always rock the box office, but he smiled right through it. A picture would come out, be a flop, and the next week he’d be celebrated at Cannes. Another film would come out, get panned by the critics, and the following month he’d be the toast of Lincoln Center.
“Giggle and give in,” he’d always say. Those are words to live by.
IT WAS HARD NOT FEEL LET DOWN WHEN I RETURNED TO LA. I was worried about Bob, who went in for a heart transplant as soon as shooting wrapped. And I was wondering what the hell to do about Jonathan and my marriage.
Jonathan is smart. He knows when to let me be and when to reach out. Faithful or not, he was deeply invested in our relationship. The minute I said that our marriage was over, he wanted to know how soon he could come home. But the first time we separated I wasn’t strong enough to make him understand that I would never again tolerate such a betrayal.
During that period, when there were some unexpected extra people in my marriage, I was so lucky to have Milton. If it hadn’t been for him, Jonathan and I never would have stayed together. I didn’t have a natural instinct in my body about how to make a marriage last.
“Fill yourself up!” he’d say to me. “Get to know yourself.”
He told me that if I wanted my marriage to endure, I had to be loving and kind, even in the face of all I was feeling.
Are you kidding? I thought. I mean, when Jonathan was away on location with the marital intruder, I was in a state of rage.
“Who is in that room with you?!” I wanted to yell over the phone.
But on Milton’s advice, I stayed loving and kind when we spoke. When Jonathan came home, I was still as sweet as I could be. Nothing else had worked—not anger, not recrimination. I kept my cool. But that only lasted so long—I hadn’t grown that much. One more infraction and suddenly the kind and loving bullshit took a backseat to fury and hurt.
“You sonofabitch!” I railed at him. “I know this, and I know that, and if you’re not completely honest with me right now, I’m gone!”
With that, I jumped in the car and tore off, going about one hundred miles per hour. Jonathan called me in the car.
“Come home!” he said. “Please! I’ll talk to you!”
When I got there, he told me how floored he was that I had been so loving to him, despite what I knew. My behavior surprised him so much that he was moved to apologize and to regret what he’d done.
Oh my God, I thought. Milton! It worked!
But Jonathan still hadn’t gotten whatever it was out of his system. The second time he dabbled outside our marriage, it was right in my face. In fact, it was in the newspaper. He was seeing somebody in the business, a name people knew, and it turned out the other woman wanted to get a house with him. I was through.
Of course, I rushed back to Milton.
“Okay, Milton,” I demanded. “What? I’m supposed to be sweet now?”
Milton said, “Well, if I were you—and I’m not and I’ll back you in whatever decision you make—I would have enough self-esteem to separate.”
So Jonathan and I separated again.
It’s funny. Whenever an actor’s marriage hits a bump in the road, the media blames Hollywood. They mock the fleeting marriages of the Kim Kardashians but never bother to praise the longevity of the Christopher Plummers or the Jeff Bridges or the Martin Sheens. I don’t know if it’s Hollywood’s fault when show business marriages don’t work. That seems like an excuse. Maybe people living elsewhere in the world don’t have the same distractions and temptations that we do. I don’t know whether it’s any harder to make a marriage last here than it is in Vermont. But I grew up here, and Hollywood is all I know.
I don’t know how easy it is to be married in Seattle.
CHAPTER 16
Lost and Found
OFTEN LOSS CAN REUNITE PEOPLE WHO ARE ESTRANGED. I didn’t know if it would happen to me.
I am so grateful that my mother lived until the twins were seven years old. Fifteen years after dad died, she married a lovely man named Howard Benjamin. They were together thirteen years and having a wonderful time until she had a ministroke. (I love the way they try to make those sound less serious than they are.) Nevertheless, Mom rallied from that. I’d bring Jack and Hanna over to visit her at the assisted living center, and they would wander the halls, stopping in everyone’s rooms, leaving smiles in their tiny wakes. But then another, slower decline began for Mom, and soon we were having birthdays in her room instead of out at a restaurant. She just kept getting tinier and tinier, and she was only five-foot-two to begin with.
Toward the end she was in wheelchair, someplace I never thought I’d see her. I spent a whole day at Macy’s one time, trying to figure out what would be comfortable to wear for a five-foot-two woman in a wheelchair. I was so proud of the way she was handling the confinement, and I found her some pretty things she really liked, doing for her what she had done for me when I was little.
Mom was always in such good spirits. I slept in her room sometimes, and I sang to her, just as I used to in the backseat of the car. On one of the last nights of my mom’s life my sister Diana and I went to Marie Callender’s and brought back a chocolate meringue pie to share with her while sitting on her bed as we talked about all our happy memories. Mom and chocolate. Some things never change.
Mom listened to my troubles with Jonathan and surprised me by confiding, “If only I’d ever had the courage to walk out on your father just once . . .”
As Mom’s days drew to a close, I phoned Jonathan in New York to tell him. He went s
traight to the airport and flew out to Los Angeles. He was shocked by the agony she was in when he saw her. Mom had a “do not resuscitate” order, but the nurses were leaving her gasping for her last breaths.
“DNR doesn’t mean she has to suffer!” Jonathan yelled, and they finally gave Mom the oxygen she needed, allowing her to pass quietly.
Mom had always said that she never wanted to be a burden to her children, and she never was. Instead, she was truly generous, spiritual, full of life, warm, and humorous right up until the very end.
So many of the things she said throughout my life come back to me on a daily basis.
Everything we need is within us . . .
Nothing is too good not to happen . . .
We are surrounded by love. . . .
You are God’s perfect child . . .
Ingratitude is the back door through which all our blessings escape . . .
She had about a hundred more sayings, and Jonathan has heard them all. One that has come to me over and over while writing this memoir: “Darling,” she would say to me whenever I overshared, “do you have to tell everything you know?”
Yes, I do, Mom, at least where you’re concerned.
I wish she could hold this book in her hands, to read it and know how much she meant to me in her unassuming delightfully inspirational way. At five-foot-ten, I wish I were half the woman my five-foot-two miracle of a mother was. Maybe someday I will be.
AFTER MY MOTHER’S DEATH JONATHAN AND I GOT BACK TOGETHER. Yes, I endured the humiliation of his extracurricular activities. I know some people thought of me as a woman who should have walked. “One disrespectful incident, and I would be out of there,” you hear people say—usually these people have no experience at all with infidelity. I’m certainly not the only person in the world who has stayed in a marriage rocked by an affair. Although in the end Milton thought maybe I should get a medal. In any case, my marriage has survived.
My decision to try again with Jonathan began as an experiment. He always said he loved me and I believed him. And I’ve always wanted to see what happens if you let love grow. Marriage can be painful, it can be angry, it can be funny, loving, and hot. It can be all those things at once. And in the end the experience of laughing, fighting, making love, talking, arguing, and seeking counseling ultimately deepened our relationship. On the good days—and there are more good than bad—I’m so glad we stuck together.
Read My Lips Page 23