by Carly Simon
* * *
Again, that Christmas, James and I had little alone time. The cabin in the woods—all four rooms of it now—was densely populated with Jimmy, Jimmy, John, Luke, and Laurie, the No Jets Construction Company, as well as a steady stream of visitors, some well intentioned, others not exactly unwilling to accept a James Taylor handout. In order to carve out some times to ourselves, we took long walks through the nearly frozen woods on the land neighboring ours, stopping at an empty summerhouse to satisfy our still torrid just-married inclinations. It was great, though not as easy as you’d think—maintaining a state of ecstasy while laughing our heads off as we made a beeline for a nearby house. We never knew for sure if the house was empty, but most were. I was almost aghast at what a good time we had, stripping off our lower garments and bending over washing machines, perching on couch arms, angling ourselves astride perfect strangers’ Shaker sideboards.
One afternoon, shortly after the New Year, someone from Elektra called with the news that No Secrets and its lead single, “You’re So Vain,” had both jumped the charts from number 39 to number 1. For me, a performer who in her mid-twenties still saw herself as the stammering younger sister, the one eternally lagging behind, it was a wholly new experience. By sheer coincidence, James’s album One Man Dog and its lead single, “Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Tonight,” had been released at approximately the same time as mine. Even though James’s new album was doing extremely well, it wasn’t the monster of a hit that “You’re So Vain” was turning out to be. You would think I might have permitted myself a few hours, if not days, of satisfaction, or pride, but I couldn’t. I had a crush on the song “Don’t Let Me Be Lonely Tonight,” similar to the crush I had on James, and the only thing I remember thinking was that I wished it were him, and not me.
It was the first time James and I had ever directly competed, and it confused me, not just because I’d always assumed James would be more commercially successful than I, but because my desire to make him happy was woven so intricately into the submissive side I’d cultivated in my childhood by bringing Uncle Peter milk shakes adorned with four-leaf clovers on top whenever he finished a tennis match. What is it about men that allows them to be at ease as the successful ones, without feeling any guilt if their wives come up short? Like many women of my generation, I wasn’t remotely at peace with the idea of winning any competition with my man.
James’s talent put everyone else to shame, and I only hoped he could savor his own tonality and poetry and sheer musicianship. To this day, there is a song on One Man Dog, “Little David,” which is so childhood Vineyard to me. I think of Davy Gude and David our dog and it blends and merges together into then and now. As for my success with No Secrets, James couldn’t have been prouder, or more gallant, in praising my work, and he seemed to take genuine pride that he was married to me. Whenever we picked up hitchhikers, which we often did, James always made it a point to call me by my name in the car, dropping a “Carly” here and there to let the person know it was me sitting there in the passenger seat. But perhaps I’m mistaken. I want to think he was proud.
At the same time, I couldn’t help but pick up a new disturbance in the air. To make matters worse, my mother kept relaying messages to me that my sisters, Joey and Lucy, were both individually ruined, like Anastasia and Drizella, having heard the news about the overnight success of their stammering stepsister Cinderella, once best friends with cellar mice and dust balls, now riding around in magical style long after her midnight curfew should have expired. Instead of gloating, I just felt guilty. In the Simon family dynamic, for me to come out ahead was senseless and wrong. Hopefully, it was just a passing worry.
The “thing” I sensed in the air between James and me came to a head one bright weekend morning during our first year together. I was taking a bath in the claw-foot tub in the bathroom, which still lacked a door. As I was scrubbing myself off, I noticed how dirty the bathwater was getting. “I feel like I should get up and wash myself again and rinse myself under the faucet,” I called out to James. “All this soap is leaving scum on my skin. It feels grubby.”
Undergoing an instantaneous personality change, James stared at me, his face pinched and condemning, blurting out, as if in response to the most egregious comment ever uttered by anyone ever, “Haven’t you ever heard of emulsification?”
Emulsification. I wasn’t well versed in chemistry, the way James, genuinely interested in chemistry, was. It was one of those words you’ve heard, but don’t know the meaning of. I knew vaguely that it had something to do with the breakdown of fat globules into smaller particles. The exact meaning of the word wasn’t the point; the larger point was that James, schooled in physics and chemistry, knew a term that I didn’t, and had pounced on me, humiliated me by deliberately making me feel dumb. A few seconds later, he’d gone outside, leaving me confused, embarrassed, and feeling rather bullied. Later, with my great friend Libby Titus, I made a list of other words and phrases that might catch me unaware and off-guard in the future, including détente, creosoted posts, and perestroika. Who knew what would come next?
More stinging than anything else was James’s sudden shift into coldness. I was reminded of how he had spoken on the phone to two of his ex-girlfriends, Maggie Corey and Joni Mitchell, and how his apparent callousness had stunned me. A year earlier, during the first weekend I spent at the cabin, Maggie had called him. James picked up the wall phone, mounted on one of the beams holding the living room ceiling in place. Very politely, never dropping his southern gentleman persona, he warned Maggie not to call him ever again, and when he hung up the phone he started swearing. At the time, I thought his terseness with her was a sidelong way of making me feel more secure in his life by providing proof that his relationship with Maggie was over and done with. Still, what had she done, what had gone so terribly wrong, that she deserved to be guillotined like that?
A similar conversation had occurred a week or two later, when Joni Mitchell called the house. At the time James was in the cabin loft, the small room above the second story, and he must have been fully aware that I could hear every word of his end of the conversation. In essence, the blade came down again as he told Joni, “You shouldn’t call here anymore.” Yes, I was relieved that his relationship with Joni, his most recent love before me, was over, but at the same time, how could anyone ever be “over” Joni Mitchell? Joni was brilliant and enchanting, and her love for James, I always imagined, was original and deep. When James hung up and came down the stairs from the loft, he looked steely and furious.
As a woman who loved him, the last thing in the world I wanted to say was “Don’t ever speak to someone you have loved, or told that you loved, or made love to, in such a way,” and I didn’t. I never said anything, simply registered this facet of James’s personality.
Still, it was a sign, an omen. I should have picked up the precision with which the guillotine fell, should have memorized the quality of his incisive, elegant baritone. I huddled in my own private cubbyhole of watchfulness, transfixed by my own innocent conceit in believing James belonged to me now, and that words so icy, and so final, could never, ever fly in my direction.
* * *
In early January of 1973, the two of us flew to Japan, where James was on tour. The Japanese press seemed equally fascinated by me, and, not least, by our marriage. Every night, one of the tour promoters took it upon himself to introduce each of the members of James’s band who had arrived without a wife or girlfriend in tow to a Japanese lady of the night. It was a way of life there, just as it’s a way of life for many musicians on the road, and the guys in the band loved traveling to Japan for just that reason, the easy separation of the heart and the body. James and I spent three weeks in Japan, using the Tokyo Hilton as our home base despite the concerts he was performing in Osaka and elsewhere, and I couldn’t help wondering whether James felt a little bit excluded from the boys’ club.
The Japanese tour held another surprise for me. Almost daily, I received
notification from the lobby that a dozen red roses were downstairs, addressed to me. They were attached to a note signed, M.P. Michael Phillips was one of Mick’s many aliases, one he probably used in hotel rooms across the world. What prompted this? I hadn’t encouraged Mick, but neither had I discouraged him. He knew I was married, so why didn’t I just call him and tell him to stop? Any decent female in a Jane Austen novel would have done that. I suppose that both Mick and I were hanging onto something, and I wasn’t sure enough of myself to disengage from him completely. When James asked me who they were from, I hedged and told him they were a gift from the tour promoter for both of us. The roses continued showing up.
At the same time, the jarring amount of attention that the Japanese press was paying to James and me led us one night to a difficult but crucially honest conversation about the competition between us. I don’t remember exactly what was said, but our talk centered around the gargantuan success of “You’re So Vain,” the attention I was receiving in Japan, and the fact that this might be one of the very few times in my career I was temporarily surfing a bigger wave than he was. James had torn feelings about this—he didn’t want to feel jealous of, or competitive with, the person he loved most in the world, he told me. His words were extremely painful for me, since I continued to feel guilty about being “big” or “important” within the Simon family. This was just the time that my mother decided she would write me out of parts of her will, since I wouldn’t need the money anymore. More worrisome, I never wanted to overshadow the man I loved. “What a good, if painful, talk it was,” I wrote afterward in my diary. “He did let me in. Very smart he is. Glad for the opportunity of having it make us so direct and open with each other. He doesn’t miss a trick.”
* * *
The early 1970s was an era when hallucinogens and other drugs were freely passed from record company presidents and A&R men to artists and their sidemen, backup singers, and stage crews. Whatever you wanted was freely available: cocaine, mushrooms, LSD, pot, as well as a few new fabrications recently invented in cutting-edge laboratories. Which explains why one of the men connected to the tour had recently given James and me four tablets of mescaline in capsule form to take to Japan. (For the record, I was innately fearful of all psychedelics. People who knew me well, including Jake and James, told me I wouldn’t do well with them, since my nervous system seems to reside outside my body rather than inside, or “in my plume,” as my son Ben says), so I simply packed the mescaline tablets inside my cosmetics case and forgot about them. We didn’t take them in Japan, and when we got back I forgot all about them, at least until a few weeks later, when James and I took a short trip.
James’s birthday, March 12, was coming up fast, and I wanted to surprise him with a big, hush-hush vacation, where James would have no idea where we were going. By that point, in spite of traveling to Japan, I had become something of an agoraphobe. Having never been the type to travel far from the mother ship, and the safety of my books and my medicine cabinet, sometimes I could barely summon up the nerve to go to a new restaurant. For our destination, I finally chose Bermuda, which is only a two-and-a-half-hour flight from New York, and reserved us a kingly suite at the Pink Beach Club, where my mother had stayed with Ronny and Peter once after Daddy died.
One day, James overheard me talking on the phone to Andy Newmark, my friend and drummer, and an irresistibly quirky fellow, who owned a house in Bermuda, asking for advice on restaurants and beaches. It was enough of a clue for him to make a fairly good guess as to where we were headed. I deflected him with a howling burst of laughter, confessing that I really, really hated to spoil the surprise, but Bermuda? Sorry, no, we were heading instead to a tennis camp in Cleveland. No sun. No sand. No crashing waves. No underwater lovemaking. But we’d come back home with vastly improved forehands, backhands, and serves. James and I had recently been discussing the possibility of taking tennis lessons in New York. Tennis was a good, healthy exercise and if we grew to love the sport, we might even consider building our own court someday.
When James was finally convinced we weren’t going to Bermuda for his birthday, and that I was, in fact, taking him to a Cleveland tennis camp instead, he was visibly disappointed. Still, I managed to ramp up his excitement level by buying him not one but two new pairs of tennis shoes, and for both of us, top-of-the-line Wilson tennis racquets.
By then, James had been on methadone for a year, and he packed enough doses to last him a week. We packed innocently and strategically for cool midwestern weather, considering we’d be playing tennis indoors. Then I got sneaky: I called the American Airlines ticket counter and asked the employee who answered the phone if she would change the name of the destination on our plane tickets to Cleveland, Ohio, which she agreed to do. (Never underestimate the power of fame.) “Just go to the first-class counter,” she said, “and I’ll brief Rosemary there to keep your secret.” At the airport, Rosemary, as promised, was a model of discretion. James and I boarded the plane, stashed our bags, tennis racquets, and big leather hats in the overhead compartment, stored our new, customized Whitebook guitars with the stewardess up front, and took our seats in the third row. Thank God, not a single pair of shorts, sandals, or white pants gave any clue to our actual destination. But once we were in the air, the secret was blown when the captain announced over the loudspeaker, “Good morning … our flying time to Bermuda today will be two hours and fifteen minutes…”
James gave a single “Gracious me,” followed by a soft, pleased laugh. At which point the stewardess, who was in on the secret, handed us two glasses of champagne in honor of James’s birthday, and we toasted to “Surprises, instead of tennis camp.”
The flight was smooth and as we lined up to disembark, I put on my hippie-of-many-colors cape and James his corduroy jacket. When the stewardess handed us our guitars, we really must have looked like “rock stars.” Why not? Long hair, guitar cases, floppy leather hats. Which is probably why the airport officials in Bermuda, a British colony, began asking us questions.
They put on a good show of being non-adversarial, but at the same time they asked to see each one of us separately in one of the little cubicles set aside for long-haired, guitar-toting, leather-hat-wearing rock stars. Fortunately, the cubicles were separated by the thinnest of walls, which allowed me to overhear the conversation between James and a young customs official.
In a fluid West Indian accent, he asked James to unzip his bag, and after inspecting the contents, noted that James must be visiting Bermuda to partake of the island’s many tennis facilities. Then came this: “I see that you have a paper bag there. Would you mind letting me see what’s inside? Oh, yes, and what exactly is inside those little bottles? Do all seven contain the same liquid? Methadone, yes. And what exactly is that for?”
James had a letter of permission from his New York doctor explaining the reason for the week’s supply, which the official scanned, confirming with James that the medication was for a “mental situation.” In the next cubicle over, I was eavesdropping on this entire conversation, while partially undressing in front of a second customs official, this one an attractive, middle-aged, no-nonsense woman whose nametag read CHLOE.
She opened my cosmetics case, which I hadn’t unpacked since returning from Japan, and had, in fact, barely touched. It suddenly hit me: in that case were the four dark-green caplets of mescaline that had been given to us. I might have told James about them, or alluded to them, but neither of us had touched them. The four pills were balled up in a handkerchief that, in turn, was stuffed inside a plastic travel-soap container. As Chloe opened out the handkerchief, the quartet of caplets went spilling onto the floor.
Chloe picked them up: Would I be so kind as to tell her what, exactly, these pills were?
“Those,” I replied, “are a special processed Vitamin B12, which I was prescribed for my heliospondic knee.” I made up heliospondic; boy did it hurt!
“I see. Well—we’ll just take these, shall we? And let the medical c
orporal-in-arms take a look?” When I nodded, Chloe pocketed them in her smock. She excused herself, shutting the door behind her, and went directly into the cubicle next door, where poor James was sitting captive. Now I heard her tell James that she’d found four green caplets inside his wife’s cosmetics bag: Did he know what they were for? “Have you ever seen them?” added the man who’d been interrogating James.
“Oh,” replied my wonderful junkie husband. “I think those are vitamins she takes.”
“For her knee?” Chloe pressed. Not a well-honed detective!
Yes, James replied, and if memory serves, he added, “Can’t be sure, but that sounds right. For her heliospondic knee.”
A few moments later, Chloe returned. She apologetically explained that she was sorry to inconvenience me, but she had to take the four pills with her for additional testing. She thanked me for cooperating. “The Bermudan government has to take every precaution to keep our little island in the sun safe,” she added. “It’s for your benefit, as much as it is for mine.”
Oh shit. What had she picked up from James’s childlike, birthday-boy eyes? My heart started beating fast. James’s and my celebratory vacation was over. We would be locked up. No doubt Chloe’s “little island safe in the sun” speech was one she’d delivered regularly to any number of miscreants attempting to start a new life here. James and I were goners, and on his birthday, no less. At this point, compared to whatever else lay in store for us, deportation would be the best news we could receive.
The upshot: James and I were free to go, but our pills would have to stay. We could go to our hotel, and customs would contact us once they’d finished their investigation.
