I HOPE YOU ARE PROUD TO CRUSH YOUR son's DREAM.
Although Moses had refused to see him after January 13, Woody continued to visit with Dylan and Satchel, supervised. I did not allow him to take them to his apartment.
In April Dylan's therapist. Dr. Schultz, informed me that Dylan had to be told what was going on—that the little girl, now nearly seven years old, had seen me crying, and overheard me on the phone with Woody, and heard Soon-Yi saying she wanted to die, and Woody endlessly arguing with me, and although I'd asked the older children not to discuss the matter within earshot of the younger ones, obviously they too were upset and needed to talk. When the little kids were supposed to be asleep, we had found them listening outside closed doors.
Dr. Schultz said she had been trying to convince Mr. Allen for some time that it was necessary to tell Dylan, but he had opposed it vehemently. He wanted the little girl to
be told that somehow I had misinterpreted a joke between him and Soon-Yi. But the therapist was adamant that that would not suffice, given the very real distress in the family. So I was instructed to explain it to Dylan m the doctor's presence, and told precisely what words to use. I would have preferred to cut off my legs.
Dr. Schultz and I were both looking at Dylan as she played on the floor near the fireplace. I took a deep breath. "Dylan, I know youVe noticed that sometimes Mommy has been crying. Mommy has been sad; and Soon-Yi was crying and now she hasn't been coming home, and Mommy seems upset with Daddy, and Daddy gets upset, and now I guess you need to know what's been going on. Well, Daddy became sort of like a boyfriend to Soon-Yi. And that was wrong because daddies are supposed to be daddies. But he is sorry, and he's getting help, and we promise you it will never happen again."
Dylan was moving two little dolls around on the floor. She never looked up. I hugged her. After a few minutes of nobody saying anything. Dr. Schultz asked me to leave them alone together.
Soon-Yi didn't come home anymore, and she didn't phone me. To be perfectly honest, I wasn't ready to have her back. When, in early May, I asked her for reassurance that she would have no contact with Woody, she said, "Stop asking me for things," and hung up the phone. Her brothers and sisters, every single one of them from Moses on up, got on the phone: and although they were angry and disgusted, we all said we missed her, and we loved her. We needed to hear her say. Look, I've made a terrible mistake. I'm sorry for the pain I've caused, and it isn't going to happen anymore. We needed that, but we couldn't get it.
Summer arrived and the children and I went to Frog Hollow. When Woody came to visit Dylan and Satchel once a week, the older kids left the house to stay with friends. It was hard for us to have him there. Woody and I had already agreed to a legal settlement, scheduled to be signed on August 6, defining our rights and responsibilities with regard to the children. Most important, it ensured that his contact with the children would be supervised. And it did not entitle him to spend the night at our home. I was eager for that date to arrive because, despite the obvious distress his visits were causing to my family and my repeated requests that he sleep elsewhere, he insisted on staying at Frog Hollow. Just then I didn't press the point further because I feared he would try to have that privilege written into the settlement contract.
That summer I taught Tam and Dylan to swim, and Satchel to read. Baby Isaiah, a sweet-natured and beautiful little boy, was already smiling and growing so fast I had to move him from his bassinet to the antique crib beside my bed. As usual, I videotaped all the children's accomplishments. Throughout this time, Tam was an inspiration. Although she had lost everything—her parents, home, country, language, friends, and her sight—still, with doubts and difficulties, she was able to open up to each member of the family, one by one. I have never respected anyone more than Tam. She helped to restore my perspective, and taught me about surviving with grace and without bitterness.
I reconnected with my old friends and slowly, piece by piece, I began to reclaim my self, the identity that had somehow, over the years, slipped almost out of existence. That same essential self who emerged from the polio wards, strong and determined, awakened from a long, deep slumber.
Now, when Woody came to Frog Hollow for visitations, Dylan would get headaches and stomachaches. She curled up in the hammock, or lay in her bed under her quilt with the door closed. On three occasions during his visits, she locked herself in the bathroom, once for four hours.
When he arrived for his visits I usually took Tarn, Moses, and Isaiah out, often with Casey. I had a trustworthy baby-sitter, Kristie, and that summer we also had Sophie, a French tutor for the children; I told them both never to leave Woody alone with Dylan. He promised me that under no circumstances would he ever be alone with either Satchel or Dylan.
But in the dark of the early mornings, even though I forbade it, he would creep upstairs from the guest room to lie on the floor beside Dylan's bed. A couple of times when Tam, who shared the room with Dylan, got up to go to the bathroom, she stepped on Woody, and woke up the whole house with her screams.
Tam hated Woody. Undoubtedly she had overheard negative comments from the older kids, and through my letters that had been read to her she knew vaguely that an older sister, a sister she had met only once (but who had been described to her at length in my letters) had disappeared under ominous circumstances related to Woody. And perhaps she had heard me crying in my room at night, or whenever Woody phoned. But primarily she disHked him because he never ever spoke to her, and since she couldn't see. It frightened her the way he would suddenly be in the room, near her, telling Satchel to pull her hair, and always with bags full of presents for Dylan and Satchel, and nothing, not a word, for Tam.
With an escalating intensity, Woody tried to persuade me to giwt him the Polaroids of Soon-Yi. "Let's burn them together," he said. But I told him they would stay in the vault for the rest of my life. I would never take them out,
but I wouldn't destroy them eithen I was sure that if I did, he would deny they ever existed.
I had persuaded Soon-Yi to take a job I found for her as a counselor at a summer camp in Maine. In July I received a letter from the camp's director, saying Soon-Yi had been fired because the scores of phone calls from a "Mr. Simon" had prevented her from becoming involved with the activities. She had left the camp, but I didn't know where she was. Woody finally admitted that he was Mr. Simon, but denied knowing where Soon-Yi was, or even her phone number. "Andre and I wanted to get her away from all this; we hoped she'd make connections with kids her own age," I told him. "Now you've ruined that."
"Leave her alone," I implored. "Out of respect for our twelve years together, or for me as the mother of your child, or for those of my children you claim to love; out of respect for Soon-Yi, and her relationship with me, her mother—I am begging you. Leave her be. Let her come home to her family. Let her have a life she can be proud of."
"Well, I'd like to do this for you," he said. "I will promise to leave Soon-Yi alone, if you will give me the pictures. Or we can burn them together if you like." But I did not, would not, give them to him.
By the end of July, Woody's people were trying to dispel the persistent rumbles in the press that we were splitting up, and that it had something to do with one of my daughters. He asked me to issue a joint press release saying there was nothing to the rumors, that everything was fine, and that we were looking forward to beginning our fourteenth film in September.
"We have to stand together on this," he told me. I said I wouldn't say anything, period, but I wasn't going to lie about it.
"Then I'm going to defend myself," he said. "I'm not
just going to stand there and let myself get crucified." I told him his position was mdefensible—he'd had sex with one of my kids and taken pornographic pictures of her, that was the truth and what else could he say?
"You'll find out. And you're not going to like it," he warned. "I'll say that Soon-Yi and I love each other," he said. "If it gets out, my analyst says I have to defend mysel
f. So, be prepared. Now, if you want to join me in a joint statement where we deny it, that's another thing."
"I never talk to the press," I said. "They know that. I'll just keep quiet."
"But I'm telling you the thing is now looming in the newspapers. If you can't see your way to helping me out of this, then I'm going to defend myself I think we should issue some kind of statement saying that this is ridiculous, and we're doing a movie together in a few weeks. Then we do the movie, and we put this thing behind us. If that can be done, there's no limit to what we can have together . . ."
"I don't feel very safe with you."
On August 4, when Woody came to Frog Hollow for his specified visit, I was out shopping with Casey, Tam, and Isaiah. Kristie, Sophie, Casey's three children and her babysitter, Alison, were at the house with Dylan and Satchel. Moses was off by himself taking a walk.
After a couple of hours, Casey and I returned, and the children rushed to greet us. It was momentarily jarring when Sophie pointed out that Dylan had no underpants on under her sundress since, at seven, she was extremely modest. I asked Kristie to please put some underpants on Dylan.
At dinner that evening at a local restaurant, Woody talked nonstop about Manhattan Murder Mystery, which, despite everything, we were planning to begin in a few weeks.
When we got back to the house he went upstairs, sat on Dylan's bed, and began a bedtime story for her and Satchel. Tarn, realizing who was in the room, started screaming, while Woody angrily and determinedly proceeded with his story. I tried to calm Tam. After a while I asked Woody if he'd please hurry the story a little, but he glared at me and continued. Dylan and Satchel were staring worriedly at Tam and nobody could hear anything but screams. When finally he finished and went out, Tam brightened up. I kissed all the kids, turned on their night-light, and left the room.
Woody was waiting in the hall, livid. "J^^t look what you've done," he said. "You'd better shape up, or there's no way you're going to be in this movie."
I started crying again. "Why is everything always my fault?" I said to his back, as he went down the stairs. "Does it never occur to you that you might be in some part responsible for any of this?"
The next morning, after Woody left for the city, Casey phoned to say that her baby-sitter, Alison, had seen something at my house that had bothered her. While Casey and I had been out shopping, Alison had gone to the television room, looking for one of the Pascal children. She saw Dylan "sitting on the couch, staring straight ahead with a blank expression." Woody was kneeling in front of her with his face in her lap. Alison told Casey she was "shocked," because it seemed "intimate, something you'd say. Oops, excuse me, if both had been adults." I remembered that Dylan had not been wearing underpants.
I hung up the phone and asked Dylan, who was sitting at the foot of my bed, "Did Woody have his face in your lap yesterday?" He had been told by the therapist not to do preciselv that thing.
"Yes," she said.
I had just been videotaping the baby, so I grabbed the camera. Dylan went on to say that he was breathing into her, into her legs. She told me he was holding her around
the waist and that when she tried to get up he "secretly put one hand here"—she pointed—"and touched my privates, and I do not like that one bit."
She told me that Woody had taken her upstairs into the attic, and that he had touched her private parts with his finger. "Don't move," he had said to her. "I have to do this. If you stay still, we can go to Paris. Don't tell."
"He was kissing me," Dylan said. "I got soaked all over the whole body ... I had to do what he said. I'm a kid, I have to do whatever the grown-ups say ... It hurt, it hurt when he pushed his finger in ... he said the only way for me to be in the movie is to do this. I don't want to be in his movie. Do I have to be in his movie? He just kept poking it in . . ."
I immediately telephoned my lawyer, who instructed me to take her to the doctor. Barely audibly, Dylan told our pediatrician that Woody had put his face in her lap and had touched her. But when she was asked where, she wouldn't talk anymore. The doctor told me to bring her back the next day. When we got into the car, she said, "I just don't like talking to strangers about my private parts."
Over the next twenty-four hours, whenever she brought it up, in fits and starts, I switched on the camera. We returned to the doctor's office the next day, and Dylan repeated what she had told me. The doctor called later to tell me that he was required by law to notify the authorities, and he was going to do so although the physical exam of Dylan showed no sign of sexual abuse.
I phoned the therapist who'd been working with Woody for almost two years about his behavior with Dylan. As soon as I told her what Alison had seen him doing, she interrupted. "He's not supposed to do that."
I told her all of it, and she said that if the Connecticut doctor was going to report it, then she would have to report It as well to the New York authorities. But first she was going to tell Woody.
WHAT FALLS AWAY 273
"Don't tell him," I said. "I'm scared of what he'll do. Can't you just deal with it? Don't report it to the authorities. That will destroy everything. It's too big. Terrible things are gomg to happen!"
I was standing outside near the lake, holding the cordless phone. It was a hot August afternoon. The kids were play-mg on the beach. A robin hopped across the grass. Everything looked so normal. Except that Dylan was lying in the hammock wrapped m a quilt. I stood, frozen in horror, and thought, Jesus Christ, Jesus Christ, what's going to happen now?
The full force of what had happened hit me. In that instant, the pain and confusion of the past seven months fell away. My mind was clear. My only objective now was to protect my child.
When Kristie, the baby-sitter, returned from her regular days off, I asked her what had happened that day. She told me that Dylan and Woody had disappeared that afternoon. She had looked for them in all the rooms of the house, upstairs and down. She had called out Dylan's name. Sophie, who was outside, said they weren't there. She hadn't wanted to tell me, but for about twenty minutes, they were missing.
The Connecticut state police instructed me to bring Dylan in to meet with child-welfare authorities. The interviewing caseworker determined that there was cause to believe that sexual abuse might have occurred. With that, the police opened an investigation. Later, the Child Welfare Services caseworker in New York, Paul Williams, spoke to Dylan's psychologist, who belatedly reported Dylan's statement to her that Mr. Allen had put a finger in her vagina.
Now Dylan seemed withdrawn. Sophie said, "Countless times I would look for her in the middle of the day, and then I'd find her in her bed, under the blankets, all alone.
awake, when it was a beautiful day and everybody else was outside playing. I would ask her to join us, but she wouldn't." Dylan wet her bed several times after August 4, something she hadn't done since she was three years old.
Over the next weeks, every time she brought up the experience, I tried to comfort her. "I don't want him to do it again. Mommy. I don't want him to do it again."
I was terrified of all that was ahead of us. Once I said to her, ''Dylan, it's important that you tell the truth. This is a very big deal. Woody says nothing happened in the attic."
"He's lying," she said.
In one of our last conversations Woody had asked me, "Is there any way out? I just want to be friends."
I said, "You're crazy. Woody. I really think you're crazy." I was still hoping that this hadn't happened to my child. "Where were you when everybody looked all over the house? If you weren't in the attic, where were you?" He stumbled and stuttered, but he wouldn't answer my question. I asked him and I asked him. I asked him every which way, maybe twenty times: "Woody, just tell me where you were." But he would not answer me.
On August 13, 1992, seven days after Woody learned of Dylan's accusation, papers were served to me ("the Respondent") in Connecticut. Woody Allen ("the Petitioner") was initiating a suit in the New York State Supreme Court for custody of Dy
lan, Satchel, and Moses. In this suit, Woody stated that:
• The Petitioner is the father of the following children:
(i) SATCHEL FARROW, born on Septem-
ber 19, 1987 [wrong: he was born in December], the natural child of Petitioner, and
(ii) MOSES AMADEUS FARROW, born on January 27, 1978, adopted by Petitioner December 17, 1991. Moses was previously adopted by Respondent, in the State of Massachusetts pursuant to an Order of the Probate of the Court of Dukes County, entered on January 9, I98I; and
(iii) DYLAN O'SULLIVAN FARROW, born on July II, 1985, adopted by Petitioner December 17, 1991. Dylan was previously adopted by Respondent.
Moses, Satchel, and Dylan are hereafter collec-tivelv referred to as "The Children." The Chil-dren from birth or from the dates of their adoption have been physically resident and domiciled with Respondent at 135 Central Park West, in the City, County, and State of New York ("New York Residence"). There are no other children to which this application applies.
• Petitioner is presently 56 years of age and Respondent is 46 years of age. Although Petitioner and Respondent have had an ephemeral relationship for the past twelve (12) years, they have never cohabited with one another and have always maintained separate residences.
• Until January, 1992, Petitioner visited with The Children on a sustained basis at Respondent's New York Apartment and elsewhere, for daily breakfast and dinner and other activities. In or about January, 1992, Respondent commenced preventing Petitioner from having regular visitation with The Children. Since August 5, 1992, Respondent has prevented Petitioner
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