by Robert Evans
“Mr. Evans gets off on surprises.”
We jaywalked across Rodeo and approached the gated door of Frances Klein Classic Jewels. Catherine knew the store all too well. As one of the proprietors was opening the gate, she grabbed my arm, looked up to me in total amazement, her face ashen.
“What are you doing?”
“It’s not what I’m going to do. It’s what you’re going to do.”
The proprietor had expected me. Catherine, trancelike, held my hand as we walked to the back of the store.
Without a word, the proprietor pulled out two velvet trays. In each compartment of each tray shined an antique diamond, emerald, ruby, and sapphire ring, each one boasting a distinguished provenance.
Looking up at the proprietor, she asked if he could give us a bit of privacy. He discreetly stepped away. Catherine looked at me sharply in the eye, whispering.
“Are you crazy?”
“Let me be the judge of that.”
“I’ve known you less than a week. You’ve never even kissed me. I can’t accept this from you. I’ve been living with a man for four and a half years.”
“That’s just the reason you can accept this from me. You’ve been living with this guy for four years, and you’re no further ahead in your life, your career, your future than you were four years ago. Let’s call it as it is. Instead of blossoming, you’re standing still. You’ve got too much going for you. There’s no girl on the screen who has your aplomb, style, beauty, and ability to boot. And where are you?”
Blankly, her eyes looked up, her ears taking in every syllable of every word.
“You’re going backward. Because when you stand still, the only thing you get is older. Got it?”
Got it she did. On that day in July, no actor I know could have delivered those lines with more fervent conviction.
No actor I know could have been as drugged up as me, either.
I turned back to the open jewel trays. “Try none of them on, try all of them on, but take the one that hits your heart most.”
As if she were under hypnosis, she tried on one ring after the other, then pointed to one on a tray that hadn’t been taken from its case. The proprietor hastened to bring the tray forward and placed it in front of Catherine.
It was obvious. One ring stood Michael Jordan–tall over all the others.
Putting it on, she looked at it for a long moment. “Isn’t it extraordinary?”
Jule Styne wasn’t wrong. Diamonds are a girl’s best friend.
Finally, looking at the ring, I nonchalantly whispered, “It’s yours. Let’s get out of here.” Without even asking the cost, I slipped the ring on the fourth finger of her left hand and we left. My doctors could’ve been right. I didn’t give a fuck. I was in love.
On the way back to the car, I had a bit of trouble walking—a problem I hadn’t told her about. She had a little trouble as well, but for different reasons. She didn’t know what planet she was on.
I opened the driver’s-side door for her with all the aplomb I could muster. “My lady, drive us home.”
I didn’t have to tell her—she knew the way. And she knew what I meant by home.
On the way there, she tried to process what was happening. “Bob, I can’t take this ring from you,” she said. “I’m living with a man. What’ll I tell him when I get back to our home? What’ll I tell my daughter, India?”
“Show your daughter both of your rings—the ring you’ve been wearing the last four years, and the ring you’re wearing as of today. Sometimes a child’s instincts are better than an adult’s. Ask her which promises a brighter future for her mother. And whatever happens, happens. What time does your guy get home?”
“About eight.”
“This is going to be resolved tonight, Catherine. I am not crazy.” I was, of course. “Impulsive, yes. Lucky to have met you—yes, yes. In love with you—more than any guy you’ve ever known. And for a damned good reason. I told you I’m only nine weeks old. I’m starting a new life with the most extraordinary lady I’ve ever met. Do I look forward to making her blossom in the way she deserves?
“Catherine, I’m not being altruistic. I am being selfish. The more you blossom, the more you succeed, the happier my new life will be. Together we’ll make them dreams come true. Is it a risk? Sounds like it—but it’s not. It’s spiritual in the purest sense. Much stronger than lust. Much stronger, even, than love. We’ve touched something neither of us will touch again. That’s why I’m not going to allow anyone to talk me out of this. I’m not going to allow anyone to dissuade you.
“It’s four o’clock on Tuesday afternoon, Catherine. I’m not going to ask you to handle your domestic problem today—”
“Strange how fate is,” she interrupted as she pulled into the courtyard. “John happens to be leaving Thursday for a four-day weekend in Las Vegas.”
“What does that tell you?”
For the first time she looked lovingly into my eyes. “That it’s right.”
“I shan’t even kiss you, Catherine. The first time I’m going to kiss you is when you are Mrs. Evans. How exciting that is—wanting you as much as I do, yet not wanting to touch you. I feel so blessed, Catherine. Our vows will be an experience we’ll both always remember.”
I said enough—no, more than enough. Now I wanted her to take her new car, go back to her old house, show her daughter her new shining light, and wait by the phone to see if my audition got me the part.
I got out of the car. “Go back and see your kid. Tell her everything. Sunday at eleven, while your boyfriend’s shooting craps in Vegas, we’ll become one, and off we’ll travel to the south of France with India and her nanny.”
As if in a trance, without saying another word to me, she pulled her car around and disappeared toward the gates that led out of Woodland to the outside world. Me, I’m bettin’ that the outside world couldn’t feel as good as the inside did.
I fell on my bed, exhausted but exhilarated. Was I high? Like I’d never been before. Was I on drugs? Like I’d never been before.
I opened the packet of my pharmaceutical goodies, added two Valiums, took my blood pressure. It was 180 over 110. Fuck it. If I die, I die. It was worth the afternoon. Never gave a better performance. It was easy—I meant it.
Now I just had to lie there and wait to see if I got the part.
I told my staff, “I’m shutting off the phones. I’m out to everybody, no matter who it is, except Catherine Oxenberg. As soon as she calls, and it should be before eight, buzz me on the intercom.”
She had three and a half hours to speak to her daughter, make up her mind, and get rid of the guy. Me, I’m just lyin’ and waitin’.
I knew the new Jag she was driving would start some kind of conversation when her guy walked in. Not to mention the rock on her finger. But I also knew I wasn’t smart enough to read a woman’s mind. I tried to watch the five o’clock news. I couldn’t. Six o’clock news, same thing. I just closed my eyes and listened to the sound of the fountains surrounding my home.
By seven o’clock, my confidence began to waver. I’d had it happen before: great audition, but I came in second. Someone else got the part. Coming in second ain’t no fun, no matter what you’re up for.
At 7:22, the intercom buzzed. In his most pristine English, Alan announced: “Mr. Evans, Miss Oxenberg is on the phone.”
Fear shot through me as if I’d stepped on the third rail of the IRT. For that split second, I was totally at a loss.
With the coolness of a blackjack dealer in Vegas, she uttered, “John is leaving tomorrow morning. So why confront him? India loves my new shining light. So do I. Are we still on for Sunday?”
“At eleven.”
“I’ll arrange the preacher. Your luck hasn’t been too good in the past. See you, darling, tomorrow.”
My first thought was, Now what? Do I tell my son? Do I call my lawyers? Do I speak to my doctor? Whoever I tell will want to lock me up.
Coincidentally, my son Joshu
a came over to visit me that night. To say he was shocked, angry, suspicious, and concerned for my sanity would be an underplay.
I stood my ground. “I’m meeting with my lawyers tomorrow. My entire trust will be left to you. You know, kid? It feels good to be alive. And hey, Joshua, don’t I deserve one of them big smiles before I take my hike?”
He left on good terms, agreeing that we’d talk some more in the days to come. And the days were few—four, to be exact. But my concern over his negative reaction was put to rest, at least as far as I was concerned. I understood where he was coming from, but more important, he understood where I was coming from. At ten the next morning, I called two of my attorneys to my home at four o’clock with my will and a notary public. Both of them asked why. Both of them got the same answer: “Don’t ask. You don’t wanna know.”
Before too long, the Next Mrs. Evans was on the horn. “Can I come over? I’m so excited.” She had told her two best girlfriends about her impending first marriage, and they embraced it as if she were marrying Baron David Rothschild. I’m thinking, Either you’re lying to me, or they’re crazy, too.
She arrived an hour later, for the first time bringing her daughter, India. Catherine showed her around her new digs, then brought her into my projection room and introduced her to her new stepfather.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Evans.” I wasn’t going to have her call me Daddy!
Catherine took India’s hand and walked her out to the tennis court. “We’ll be taking tennis lessons three times a week from Darryl. Isn’t that wonderful?”
A silence. Didn’t like it. Didn’t blame the kid, either.
They went for a tour of the house. Ten minutes later, Catherine buzzed me from the intercom. “India and I are leaving. We’ll see you tonight for din-din. I invited some of my girlfriends over to join us watching Entrapment, if that’s all right with you.”
“Hope India’s coming.”
“Oh, she’ll be with me.”
When I saw my attorneys that afternoon, they didn’t know which psychiatrist to call first. But my resolve was so stern that they had little choice but to follow my orders.
That night, Catherine, her eight girlfriends, and her daughter, India, came by for the screening of Entrapment. Her friends all seemed to embrace our coming nuptial bliss. The clock was ticking.
Then, as I was walking her to our outdoor Jacuzzi, India looked up at me. “You know, Mr. Evans, you remind me so much of my grandfather. Do you know him?”
The terrible thing was, I did!
How is it that one line uttered by one person can blow euphoria into depression? India had said it all in that one line. I could have bought her Disneyland and it wouldn’t have changed her feelings.
God, did I age quickly that night!
We all loved the picture. Afterward, though, I was scared to get up from my chair. My legs felt like the Tin Man’s. My afternoon pills were wearing off, and I needed a new batch to keep me from turning into Dorian Gray. As far as Catherine and the rest were concerned, I wasn’t just on the road to recovery—I had recovered. And one thing I couldn’t show was my hand—that is, my legs.
Cristal flowed like ginger ale, except for me and India. She was too young to drink it; I was too old. But I faked it good.
With the pristine manners of the countess she was, Catherine announced to one and all that our impending marriage would take place at eleven o’clock Sunday—beneath our tree.
I started laughing. “Who’s marrying us—our butler?”
“Darling, that’s all taken care of.”
“Thanks for telling me.”
“I told you, that part was my assignment. I got her out of the Yellow Pages.”
“The Yellow Pages?”
“That’s right, 1-800-I-MARRY-U. When I called, Dr. Patricia Swanson said, ‘Thank you for calling the marriage line, dearly beloved.’ I felt immediately comfortable. My intuition told me Dr. Swanson was the right person. Didn’t make one other call.”
Before I could answer, she said, “Evans, don’t question my judgment on this. You’re batting zero for four—don’t forget it.”
“Forget it? I’m looking forward to it.”
On Friday morning, I paid a visit to Dr. Charlie Kivowitz, the captain of the medical team that was keeping me breathing. When I told him I was getting married on Sunday—and to whom—his face paled. He sat down silently to think; I could see his hands shaking.
“Bob, I don’t think you understand one thing,” he finally said. “Only a month ago, your limbs weren’t moving, you couldn’t talk, your blood pressure was a roller coaster at best, and—most important—your brain was swollen. It still is. This isn’t a crap game. You’ve had therapists by your side twenty-four hours a day. But it’s worse than that. I’m starting to think the stroke has really affected your judgment. You’re fucking crazy. Does Catherine have any idea how sick you are?”
I didn’t answer.
He stood up. “Well? Tell me. Does she know how sick you are?”
“It’s a tough question to answer, Doctor.”
“No, it isn’t. Because if she knows how sick you are and she marries you, she’s just as sick as you are.”
“Hey! Hold it, Charlie. I haven’t been showing you all my cards. She knows all about my stroke. As a matter of fact, we joke about it. I tell her I’m nine weeks old.”
The doctor didn’t laugh. “You’re not nine weeks old. And if you get married, you won’t live another nine weeks. You need nurses and therapists, not a wife and a child running around the house. I’m calling Catherine now.”
I grabbed the phone from the doctor’s hand.
“Don’t call her, Charlie, please.”
I thought, He’s a fucking doctor. He’s just trying to scare the shit out of me. Fuck him and his medical diplomas. I’m going to get to the church on time, and he ain’t gonna stop me.
The doctor started laughing. “You were putting me on, weren’t you, Evans?”
I smiled back. “Well, sort of.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
I had to switch gears quick to get out of his office a free man. “I’m a better actor than you thought, Charlie. I met her on the tennis court. We had some fun, that’s all.”
“How long have you known her?”
“A couple of weeks.”
“Bob, please. These last two months with you have been exhausting, to put it mildly. You know, doctors are human. We carry stress, too. You’re walking a very thin line, Bob. Don’t take it lightly. Promise me?”
“Ah, come on, Charlie. You can’t take a joke.”
“You’re right. I’m not here to hear your jokes. I’m here to keep you alive. Don’t forget that.”
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry. Won’t do it again, I promise. See you on Tuesday.” After the elevator door closed, I said, “Your ass, I’ll see you on Tuesday. I’ll be in the south of France by then.”
Would you say those pharmaceuticals I was taking were fucking with my head?
Later that day, my dear bride started moving her things into her new domicile.
It was Saturday. I was lying on my bed. Catherine, India, her nanny, and I were booked on a plane to leave for Nice the next day. And my blood pressure was 195 over 110—even with the help of all those pills.
With my blood pressure hitting them numbers, I had two other doctor friends over. Robert Siegel advised me that taking an eleven-hour plane flight would be playing Russian roulette. I wasn’t afraid of dying, but I didn’t want to die on a German plane. They contacted a stroke center near Hotel du Cap, to keep them on alert. But after further persuasion, I was convinced it could be more than a bumpy ride—rather, a final one.
By this time, Catherine was all prepared to leave for the south of France. How could I tell her I was a prime candidate for another stroke? When she got back from the fitting for her bridal gown, she found me still sitting with the two doctors. I played it out as though I had a sinus condition.
“
I checked the weather conditions in Nice,” I told her. “It’s pouring there and they’re expecting a big storm to come in. A long fuckin’ flight, anyway. Let’s make it easier, go someplace where we can get home quicker, get things set up properly.”
What a trouper! It didn’t bother her one iota. “If you’re not up to it, darling, let’s stay closer to home.”
Well, let’s just say Montecito ain’t Antibes and Santa Ynez ain’t the Hotel du Cap.
Saturday night. I’m thinking, The less I see her before the wedding, the better my chances of closing the deal. That night, she and her girlfriends went out to the Palm to celebrate the secret tying of the knot. The next morning, Alan left early to collect Dr. Swanson, who would be performing the ceremony at noon.
Dr. Swanson, as it happened, lived in Pasadena. Was she the real thing? You bet. Did she have all the right credentials? Yes. When Alan picked her up, the figure he encountered was that of a conservative English lady. But she had one idiosyncratic quirk: Between Pasadena and Beverly Hills, she nonchalantly described her only roommate, her English bulldog—who she believed was the reincarnation of her deceased husband.
Why Alan didn’t grab me by the arm and tell me this earlier I’ll never know. Maybe he thought it was normal. In actuality, it wasn’t any less normal than the proceedings that followed.
Catherine never looked more beautiful. And our wedding was like an acid trip: colorful, absurd, and, yes, unreal. The bride, ravishing. The groom, ravished. One part of my brain was telling me how lucky I was. The other was asking, What do I do next?
It happened to be the hottest day of the summer, with the temperature hitting the century mark. Me, I felt like I was, too. I was just hoping to stand long enough to say, “I do.” With my legs wobblin’, I barely got the two words out. A married man I was.
The guests congratulated the bride, all fifty of them. Did they mean it? Of course not. Did they think ours was a match made in Heaven? More like a scene from Fellini.
A little later, we departed for the Santa Ynez Inn in two limousines: Catherine and I in one; India, her nanny, Catherine’s closest friend, and her daughter in the other. When we finally arrived at the honeymoon suite, though, I could barely get out of the car.
