A Complicated Marriage (41 page)

In Las Vegas Charlie made for the craps table, and that was that. I wandered around, played some blackjack, and soon went to bed. In the early hours, I woke up and went down to see how Charlie was doing. He was easy to spot. Alone at a table, pale, his eyes glassy, he rolled the dice like an automaton, the chips pushed to him or raked away from him, mostly away. I had never seen gambling like that; as an addiction, it made alcoholism smell like a rose. I knew it was time for me to go. When I got his attention, the exchange was simple: I told him I was heading home, he told me he was going to play poker off the strip and asked me to lend him money, as the hotel had cut off his credit. That was easy. I took my AmEx card to the cashier. I went upstairs and made a reservation for the early-morning flight to LaGuardia. Later, when the phone rang, I picked it up, figuring at that hour it was probably the airline or Charlie. It was Charlie's wife. We were both startled. The conversation was short. I wrote Charlie a note telling him about the call and left for the airport.

On the plane I felt a surge of release. I was out of it. They would figure things out. If I felt anxious or guilty, in my usual way, I buried it. After all, we were all grown-ups. I slept until the wheels smacked the tarmac. For the will-the-plane-fall-out-of-the-sky fretter, another first.

From then on, it was farce. She: the raging wife, screaming betrayal, threatening dire ultimatums, throwing his things out of the house. He: guilt-ridden, suicidal, falling-down drunk (Charlie rarely drank). Me: feeling woefully miscast as a femme fatale mired in the ugly mess. All feeling like victims.

Farce aside, I felt cannibalized by them, chewed up as dinner-table fodder as they played out their marital push-pull rituals. I had nightmares of family meals deteriorating into mayhem and chaos and carving knives and ravaged food. Fanning the flames, Charlie would insist on a daily blow-by-blow of the latest he-said-she-said. I, who had always recoiled
from confrontation, did my best to close my ears and closet myself in work.

In time, things simmered down. Perspective was restored. And insights, dripping with hindsight, flooded in. Right at the top, I vowed never again to get involved with a “hush-hush” married man. Far too high-maintenance. I also recognized that beyond the magazine, which had triggered a powerful bond, Charlie and I had little in common.
Madison Avenue
was like a favored child that we got a kick out of, and that bond would continue. But we didn't really think alike or care about the same things.

Just as in the past I had never considered leaving or divorcing Clem to be with anyone else, I never considered doing so now. I think my relationship with Charlie had initially reminded me of the theater, where the sheer thrill and proximity of the production would lead to a liaison—short-term, long-term, whatever—where the parameters were always clear, and casual. Not to have picked up on the differences in an office relationship with a married man and the potential damage to all was short-sighted, to say the least. Overall I reconfirmed the simple homilies: Sneaky behavior is sneaky behavior, and why lie, when the truth feels better?

Whatever the drama and insights, my work came first. And the pace accelerated when Charlie made a deal with WNEW, Channel 5, in New York, for
Madison Avenue on TV
. The series of shows would be aired on Sunday nights at eleven o'clock, the “dead zone.” Co-hosted by Charlie and me, the shows mirrored the magazine by highlighting an industry's advertising, followed by a discussion by marketing and creative pros. All I had to do was get the bodies in the chairs, compose a bunch of questions, and keep things lively. Easy, except for the lively part. But what about makeup, clothes, hair? I was more nervous than I had ever been on a stage. I could hear Strasberg sneer when I blew the opening and we had to do three takes.

When Charlie again reassured, “Don't worry, nobody will watch it,” this time I believed him. Who would possibly be interested in the making of commercials, much less in the middle of the night? But Charlie had a nifty new sales toy. We did four shows: airlines, soft drinks, corporate
advertising, and, my favorite, advertising to women. As with the magazines I never read, I never did look at the shows, so I had no idea whether I sweated through my silk or whether my fake eyelashes were fabulous or ludicrous.

Also in the course of that first year,
Madison Avenue
took to the road with regional issues. Every three months, photographer in hand, I headed to a different major market. I would interview the leading advertisers and media directors, gather agency heads for a give-and-take market assessment, and then write my personal take of the city. In interviews I never used a tape recorder; it took too much time to filter out the chaff from the grain. With my trusty speedwriting notes, I often wrote up an interview in the taxi on the way to the next, or long into the night.

Early on I recognized that industry leaders were not just money men; most were passionate and creative. Top of my list was Charles Tandy of Tandy/RadioShack, entrepreneur extraordinaire. I talked to “Chuck” in the back room of a storefront in Fort Worth, home base of his billion-dollar corporation. Scruffy, feet up, people in and out, whiskey, beer, and cigars all around. He may have looked like he was kicking back, but he sparked with energy, for conversation, ideas, and “the dream.” His credo: low overhead, hard work, focus on the product, grow big and then bigger, but stick with what you know. From selling leather crafts to being poised on the cusp of the microchip revolution to becoming a retail household name, he was always a gambler—he called it “betting on the future.” A puckish jokester surrounded by geegaws: the rubber tit on his desk to summon another round of drinks, the witch's mask with the “pull me” string that drenched me with water, the ubiquitous fart cushions. His CB handle? Mr. Lucky. He might have used a touch of suave, but I never forgot him, and I was sad when, a year later, his luck ran out and he died of a heart attack at sixty.

One of my most discomfiting encounters was with Hugh Hefner. Not because of my budding, if late-blooming, feminism. On the contrary, the “girls” I chatted with around the pool at the Mansion or while munching superb hamburgers around the big dining-room table were smart and straightforward. Just like Hefner, who was, in addition, generous with
his time and invitations to this movie or that party whenever I was in town.

I went several times, once in the late seventies, to a New Year's Eve party with Sarah. For all the hype about Hefner, this event, like the others I attended, was quite tame. Even with the mandated attire of “sleepwear,” the diaphanous baby-doll creations were more PG than titillating. I am sure there was snorting and sniffing going on, but not so one would notice. Hefner was fiercely antidrugs; his addictions were Pepsi and sex. And even when Sarah and I cruised the infamous “grotto,” we saw nothing we hadn't seen on the beaches of Saint-Tropez.

Hefner's largesse was prompted not by my interviewing him—he couldn't have cared less—but by my being his son's boss. David Gunn, twenty-one, was Hefner's younger child and my photographer, the best the magazine ever had. He lived in Chicago near his delightful mother, Millie, and would travel with me often. Handsome and fun, he was also unsure of himself, but never more so than when we were at the Mansion. At dinner, around the table filled with regulars, Hefner gratuitously belittled David. I tried to deflect the attack with talk of David's remarkable work for the magazine, but his father would not let go until he had reduced him to tears. The unacknowledged son, the golden-girl daughter, Christie. Publicly, even privately, it was as if David didn't exist. But it was the face-to-face father-to-son cruelty that appalled me. And David continued to go back for more.

After my interview with Hefner, I broached the subject of David's need of his father's approval, but I touched no chord. I had stepped over the line. I was very fond of David and admired his father, but didn't like him.

Three years slipped by. Not in a blur, not at all—the images were indelible. And from day one, my wish had been realized; once again, I was using myself up fully and happily every day. With pride I watched the magazines piling up on the shelf, each one thicker than the last, proof of a job well done.

Along the way, in 1976, I picked up a powerful ally, a new analyst. The impetus was my first, and only, panic attack. On Madison Avenue,
steps from my office, I found I could barely breathe or swallow. Kathy took me to the emergency room at Lenox Hill. Even as I waited for the shot of whatever to do its thing, I wondered where I could find a good analyst. I asked Joe Smith, a marketing guru and mentor/friend who knew all things, and he referred me to David Rubinfine, a member of that elite coterie, the New York Psychoanalytic Institute.

It was clear from the start that though David was a Freudian MD, he was a maverick at heart. The first session was remarkable. I dutifully reeled off my life scenario. He, without taking the usual meaningful pause, said, “You're an orphan.” With that word, the floodgates were finally released. I cried until the session was over. Defying protocol, he walked me to the door, patted my shoulder, and, alakazam, instant transference. It saved a hell of a lot of time and money.

David was a great analyst. I was a great patient. With his help, my day-to-day empowerment remained intact. With his support, in 1977, I took a step that startled me: I told Clem that I would like a divorce. Clem was startled, too.

 

Clem is on the love seat in the living room, where he always sits. I am next to him, where I rarely sit. It is midafternoon on a fall weekend. It is warm. The windows are open. He is angry, the only time he has ever been angry with me. Not loud or full-out in any way. Worse, the anger is in the restraint of it. In his face, in his voice, I can see and hear the effort it takes to hold the anger back. All I can say is, “I want to know what it would be like to be single.” He calls it “a meaningless gesture.” I agree on some level; it does seem out of nowhere and frivolous. But it isn't meaningless.

“What's wrong with the way we are now?”

“Nothing. It's just something I need to do.” Which brings us back to “meaningless gesture.” We repeat the circle a few times and then sit in silence. In my mind I start second-guessing. I know the time is right, but the words feel hollow. I feel strong, but I am unsure how long that feeling will last. Most of all, I find I am unable to talk definitively about a separation. I am afraid.

Clem's anger subsides. We go to the kitchen for another drink. It is there that he asks if my reason is another man. I say there is no one. He repeats one of his life axioms: “To leave one person for another doesn't speak well for one's character.” I am reminded how much I believe that. Only two years ago, Charlie asked one day whether, if he left his marriage, my door would be open. My response, an emphatic no. “If you leave, you leave for yourself, not for me.”

Once again in the living room, Clem becomes practical and says, “As long as it is all done through one lawyer.” Given that neither of us has ever had a lawyer, much less known one, that seems a good idea. Then he adds, “And it should be no one's fault.” Makes sense. And then he says, “And as long as nothing changes.” That's when I know all will be right in our world. We talk about Sarah, who we suspect won't even notice the difference. And then we move on to the more mundane: the magazine, what bills have come in, did the maid show up on Tuesday . . . And when I leave, we kiss.

 

I found Jack Strauss, the perfect lawyer, through a magazine friend who had recently divorced. We met with Jack, a rare lawyer who had creativity and imagination, only once. The final divorce paper was three pages long, reduced from its original length, when Clem said it was overly complicated. He particularly took issue with the phrase
irreconcilable differences
, but agreed to it after the lawyer read off the menu of alternatives. Typically, after the final decree arrived, Clem edited it and struck out that paragraph. The pieces of paper with a blue cover went into the metal box in his office that held our very few “important documents.”

In today's climate of adversarial divorce, I look at the decades-old document and am struck by its civility and simplicity, and the degree to which it reflects mutual esteem and trust. Two portions are particularly telling. Regarding
joint custody
(another phrase that grated on Clem) of Sarah, age thirteen:

And the final paragraph:

I don't know if I thought about it at the time, but Clem had another life axiom that would have pertained; “Never marry someone you can't imagine divorcing.” He was so right. If I had been married to anyone else, my “gesture” could easily have escalated into a nightmare. And kudos again to our lawyer, who understood his quirky clients and made it the non-event it was meant to be. Now, when I ask Sarah about it, she agrees. “I suppose I knew about it. But it wasn't important.”

A few months later, in June, my mother called to say she was going into the Falmouth Hospital to have an operation. With her usual vagueness she added, “Nothing serious. I just haven't been feeling quite right.” I called her doctor, who supplied the chilling adjectives
exploratory operation
and
possible pancreatic cancer
and added, “No, she doesn't know. No need to upset her.”