PART IV
Chapter One
In the early eighties, alternately isolated from the world and in the thick of it, I bridged the gap by listening to news reports. As the eighties rolled out, I found myself more in the thick of it than not. To recap:
On January 21, 1981, while Ronald Reagan was rolling up his newly inaugurated presidential sleeves to deal with a variety of responsibilities affecting humankind around the world, I was deciding such things as when to haul water from the creek and what wax to put on the children’s skis.
President Reagan’s responsibilities would include freeing hostages in Iran; ending a strike by air traffic controllers; invading a tiny Caribbean island called Grenada; bonding with the United Kingdom’s prime minister, Margaret Thatcher; recovering from an attempt on his life; deregulating the financial market; promoting trickle-down economics; and reducing government spending except for “Star Wars,” the Strategic Defense Initiative that he told us would prevent nuclear obliteration of the United States by the Soviet Union.
I turned forty on February 9, 1982. That same year I recorded my One to One album, performed in concert, and filmed a performance and interviews in Austin for a video I released that year, also titled One to One. I traversed the continent between California and New York to spend time with my children, act on the stage, and appear on TV. I traveled to Boise to meet Rick for court appearances and lawyer meetings. Back at home I strategized with my husband, composed letters seeking congressional help, and wrote songs.
The quiet title trial alone might have filled 1985, but when producers Laura Ziskin and Sally Field asked me to score and write songs for Murphy’s Romance, and the director, Martin Ritt, offered me a small role in the film, how could I say no? The score featured my piano, a string quartet, and the saxophone of David Sanborn. David Campbell did the orchestration. Lou Adler produced the soundtrack album for Murphy’s Romance, which as of this writing has yet to be released. The score and songs took quite a bit of time to create; the acting role, considerably less. Don’t blink or you’ll miss my moment as Tillie. Later that year director Rick Rosenthal cast me in Russkies as the mother of a twelve-year-old boy played by Joaquin Phoenix, then called Leaf Phoenix. My mother played my character’s mother. The film was scheduled to be shot in Key West, Florida. When I went on location the children stayed in L.A. with Charlie. Rick remained in Idaho.
In 1986 Charlie became involved in a project that required him to be in Florida for an extended period of time. To keep the children from having to change schools, he asked if I’d take over as the resident parent in L.A. during the 1986–87 school year. Rick had never made any secret of his loathing for L.A. and declined to join me, but he did agree to the arrangement and promised to travel back and forth for what he referred to as conjugal visits.
The intricate travel dance in which my husband, my ex-husband, and I were engaged did nothing to ameliorate the problems developing between Rick and me. The range of the dance increased in 1986 when Sherry asked me to come to New York as much as possible during the last months of a difficult pregnancy in which she was confined to bed. Traveling back and forth between New York, L.A., Idaho, and London—where Louise was living—I racked up thousands of frequent flyer miles. I was forty-four when I became a grandmother on October 24, 1986.
When I held my grandson for the first time I nuzzled his little face, counted his fingers and toes—ten, twenty, yes, all there!—and pronounced him, with no bias whatsoever, the handsomest baby in the world. I held him long enough to mutually imprint that we were family, then I reluctantly gave him back to his mother. Sherry settled the baby in a comfortable position for both and then posed a question with so much tact that I would have recommended her for a position in the State Department had she not just taken on an eighteen-year commitment.
“Um… Mom? What do you want Dillon to call you?”
I looked at her as if she were from another planet.
“Grandma. What else would he call me?”
Nomenclature would not be one of the ways I would try to postpone getting older.
At forty-four, not only was I a grandmother but I was the mother of two adult women and two active teenagers, one of whom was a twelve-year-old Jewish boy. With his own son unable to participate in the Jewish traditions of his ancestors, my father turned his attention toward the next male in line. In the fall of 1986, when I told my dad I was going to be based in L.A. until the following June, he said, with the air of a casual suggestion, “You know, Levi’s going to be thirteen next April. You might want to think about his bar mitzvah.”
It was unusual for my dad to express a heartfelt wish with such delicacy. I could tell how important it was to him when he continued in the same understated manner.
“You shouldn’t have any trouble finding a good rabbi in L.A.”
My dad needn’t have worried. I was of similar mind. And he was right; I had no trouble finding Stan Levy, a rabbi whose day job as a practicing lawyer kept him independent of having his sole income subject to the whim of a congregation. This left him free to perform his rabbinical duties answering only to God and Mrs. Levy.
Since I had to drive Levi to and from Stan’s study classes, rather than drop my son off and wait in a nearby café, I asked Stan if I might sit in.
“Of course.”
His consent was a threefold gift to me: a joyous reunion with learning, a reconnection with the history of my forebears, and an opportunity to witness how much Levi and the other boys, including Stan’s son Joshua, were absorbing from the discussions.
As 1986 rolled into 1987, my roots were spread among far too many places for any to take hold. As much as I had tried to make a home for my family in Idaho, life kept taking me elsewhere. Chief among the advantages of being in L.A. was getting to spend more time with my Larkey children. Other benefits were the availability of new and interesting professional experiences, the joy of having neighbors who didn’t hate me, and proximity to the popular culture that many Angelenos believed would help them stay young. Of course I didn’t need to be in L.A. for any of the latter three things. New and interesting experiences seemed to find me no matter where I was. Joy was in my heart, even in difficult times; the key was remembering that. As for staying young, if someone had then told me, “Good luck with that!” I wouldn’t have listened. As far as I knew, I was young.
An unanticipated stroke of good fortune came to me in 1987 when I met Rudy and Lorna Guess. With so many activities to keep track of, I needed a personal assistant. When Lorna applied for the position she mentioned that her husband was a guitar player but didn’t elaborate further. Lorna proved so capable, intelligent, and industrious as my assistant that inevitably she became my professional manager. In addition to appreciating the benefits of her advocacy, I found it very satisfying to watch her win respect in an industry that is not always welcoming to strong, smart women in management. After I hired Lorna, the first time I needed to record a demo it seemed quite natural for me to do it in Rudy’s studio and have him play guitar. I quickly discovered that Rudy was an extraordinary guitar player with a musical sensibility similar in many ways to mine. Where it was different, his knowledge expanded my own repertoire and skills. He was also an excellent recording engineer. Increasingly I came to rely on Rudy as a cowriter, coproducer, engineer, bandmate, and musical director.
In Lorna Guess I found a wise, bright businesswoman, a gracious teammate, a sympathetic sounding board, a bold innovator, and a creative partner who saw where I wanted to go and helped get me there.
In Rudy Guess I found a comrade with a calm approach to solving problems. His strength of character, understated generosity, clarity of purpose, sense of wonder, and sunny smile made everyone’s life better.
In both I found two of the greatest friends a person could ever hope to have.
My son’s bar mitzvah took place on a perfect spring day in April 1987, with the Pacific Ocean as a backdrop. As Rudy and Lorna came to be known, the Guessae (pronounced Guess-eye) attended along with other friends and family members. Rick came to L.A. for the occasion and was in a rare and delightful humor the whole time. It was the last time I would see him that way.