The Lost Daughter: A Memoir

by Mary Williams

  I was especially fond of his son Raphael, who was also visiting. I spent a lot of down time on the set with Raphael, playing Frisbee and exploring the town. He was about eight or nine years old, a gregarious boy with olive skin and an expressive face. I enjoyed watching De Niro interact with him; it was reminiscent of the close, affectionate bond I witnessed between Troy and Tom. De Niro was always touching and holding his boy, who luxuriated in the attention like a contented cat.

  Martha Plimpton, famous for her breakout role in the blockbuster The Goonies, played Jane’s daughter. Martha was a few years younger than me but I found her extremely intimidating. She was a radical vegan who with the slightest of provocations would go on long tirades about the evils of factory farming and the moral ineptitude of anyone who ate animal products or wore fur or leather. Though I found her dedication to the cause of animal rights admirable, she was a little intense for me and I gave her a wide berth.

  On days off from shooting, the entire cast would go on outings together. I remember an especially pleasant afternoon picnicking at Niagara Falls and a trip to see Cirque du Soleil. But Jane and I would also find time for just the two of us, and we spent several afternoons on long bike rides through Toronto parks.

  • • •

  For Martin Luther King Day in 1989, Jane, Tom and I had plans to attend the festivities in Atlanta. I had been looking forward to the trip for weeks. When the day of the trip arrived, I rushed to the Alta house to ride with Jane and Tom to the airport. I walked into the house to discover Jane carrying her bags downstairs, Tom nowhere to be seen. “Where’s Tom?” I asked. “He isn’t coming,” Jane said, and quickly changed the subject.

  During our stay in Atlanta we attended a solemn service at Ebenezer Baptist Church with the King family, celebrities, politicians and civil rights activists, including the Reverend Jesse Jackson. At a gathering after the service, Jane greeted her friends and signed autographs for fans. I didn’t have a clue that she was agonizing over the end of her marriage to Tom. She told me after our return to Santa Monica that Tom had backed out of the trip after informing her that he was having an affair and wanted a divorce.

  Jane told me then that her marriage to Tom had been unhappy for years. I was shocked. I never saw the discord, perhaps because I grew up in a house where one expressed unhappiness openly, vehemently and often violently. Whatever arguments Jane and Tom had must have occurred in whispered tones behind closed doors, because I never witnessed a moment of anger between them.

  Though she tried to hide it, Jane was hurting and I hurt for her. I knew the pain of being rejected by someone who is supposed to be by your side no matter what. When I went back to school, I worried about her and checked in often. The divorce was bitter but neither one of them let it reach us children.

  Troy seemed to hold up well and maintained a good relationship with both of his parents. I was much closer to Jane, so the fact that Tom had simply disappeared from my life was puzzling but not devastating. Vanessa didn’t seem surprised at all by the breakup.

  Jane didn’t stay single long. Soon after the divorce she dated a handsome young actor for a while who Vanessa dubbed the Italian Stallion. Vanessa made it clear she was not pleased with Jane’s new beau, but I felt differently. I saw that Jane’s mood had lifted and that’s all that mattered to me. Vanessa was thrilled when Jane tired of the Italian Stallion and sent him on his way.

  One weekend I came home from college to find Jane, for the first time since the divorce, looking genuinely happy. The minute I walked through the front door she excitedly waved me over to join her on the big floral sofa. Her face was flushed and her eyes were bright. She grabbed both my hands, looked me in the face and in a conspiratorial tone with a grin as broad as the State of Montana she whispered, “I just went out on the best date!”

  For the next half hour I listened as she told me about a man who had heard about her divorce and after waiting a respectful amount of time asked her out. She was hesitant to go out with him because after a bit of research she’d learned he was quite a ladies’ man. In the end his persistence wore her down and they’d gone out.

  “He’s so handsome!” she cooed. “He kind of looks like Laurence Olivier!” She went on to tell me that he was some kind of media mogul who also sailed boats. I had no clue who this guy was but I was thrilled that he’d put a smile back on my mom’s face. “Oh!” she said, giggling like a teenager. “He has a nickname. They call him ‘The Mouth of the South’!”

  This was my first introduction to my future stepfather, Ted Turner. A few months after our chat on the sofa, I knew the relationship was getting serious when Jane informed my siblings and me that her new boyfriend, Ted, was coming to town and wanted to meet us. “Don’t be put off by how loud he talks,” she warned us. “He’s partially deaf.”

  These were the days before Google, so during the course of the next few weeks I was able to piece together a more complete picture of just who this guy was. I learned he was a twice-divorced, Southern billionaire philanthropist who owned a cable television network, several major league sports teams, lots of land and said whatever popped into his head. Loudly. He also wanted to colorize my beloved classic films. I didn’t expect to like him.

  When Troy, Vanessa, Nathalie (Jane’s stepdaughter with Roger) and I showed up at the California Pizza Kitchen in Los Angeles for our dinner with Ted, I think we were all a bit surprised to find ourselves as enamored with him as Jane. He did not carry himself like a billionaire playboy. He dressed simply, was charming and very funny. What was most surprising was he actually seemed a bit intimidated by us. It was obvious he was doing his best to make a good impression. He asked lots of questions about our schools, our travels, our interests. Best of all, he doted on Jane. He made sure she was comfortable, kissed her frequently, and said endearing things to her every few minutes. Jane luxuriated in his affection. They were like a pair of lovesick teenagers. By the end of the evening I was confident that Ted was a good fit for our mom, and I could see that Vanessa didn’t detest him, which was saying a lot since the men in Jane’s life found it notoriously difficult to win her over.

  Two years after our get-to-know-you dinner, Jane announced that they planned to marry. While I was sure that Ted and Jane were genuinely in love and that Ted would make a great stepdad, I had not yet met his kids. Ted had five children from two different marriages—two girls and three boys—who were about the same ages as we were.

  Like their dad, the three boys loved to hunt and fish and were self-proclaimed rednecks, and the two girls from all accounts were the quintessential Southern belles who enjoyed the finer things in life. I couldn’t imagine what we could possibly have in common.

  The very first time I spent Thanksgiving at one of Ted’s properties, I was the last of the Fonda kids to arrive at the airport in Tallahassee. Everyone else had reached Ted’s place hours before. So it was the middle of the night when a chauffeured car whisked me onto the highway leading to Avalon Plantation. During the drive I couldn’t help but wonder, How in the world is our multicultural, granola-munching, radically liberal, highly opinionated crew going to blend with Ted’s brood of Southern belles and rednecks? As I thought about the upcoming week on the plantation, the famous line from one of my favorite movie classics All About Eve came to mind: “Fasten your seatbelts, it’s going to be a bumpy night!”

  The car turned off the highway and onto a long dirt road. All was pitch darkness except for the clouds of dust that swirled in the headlights like wayward spirits. The woods on either side of the road seemed thick and impenetrable. After a few minutes of riding in near complete darkness, I saw bright lights in the distance. It was a beautifully restored two-story antebellum mansion lit up with exterior lights. The house was white and trimmed in forest green, and the brick walkway leading to the large front door had two little figures of black stable boys cast in iron about three feet high guarding the entrance. A brief unease came over me. This mansion was nearly exactly like those I’d seen
in films like Roots and Gone with the Wind. As a child of the Black Power movement, I’d never dreamed I’d one day call an old slave plantation home.

  The driver helped me carry my bags inside. The door had been left unlocked, which I soon learned was a common practice. After the driver left and the sound of tires crunching on gravel faded, I stood in a dimly lit entry hall with thirty-foot ceilings, a dazzling chandelier and a spiral staircase. I stood quietly for a moment enveloped in the tranquil quiet of the sleeping house. I knew at least eleven people were tucked away in various rooms fast asleep, but all I heard were the shifting bones of the old house. I poked my head into one of the two living rooms and was confronted by Scarlett O’Hara.

  What looked like the original painting from Gone with the Wind was mounted on the wall lit by a small overhead light. A haughty Scarlett in an off-the-shoulder blue velvet gown and a white lace shawl stared off to the left as if refusing to acknowledge my presence. I stepped closer for a better look. Jane had told me that Gone with the Wind was one of Ted’s favorite movies and he’d even named one of his sons Rhett after the leading man played by Clark Gable.

  I squinted and rubbed my fingers lightly across the surface to see if I could detect any sign of damage from when an angry Rhett Butler threw a glass of liquor at the portrait. There was none. I found out later it was a reproduction and that the original hangs in the Margaret Mitchell House in Atlanta.

  I wandered around the living room, checking out the interesting knickknacks and antiquated furniture. I wondered if I should wake someone in order to find out where I was to sleep, or just crash on the couch with Scarlett for the night. Just when I’d decided on the couch, a light at the top of the spiral staircase popped on and there stood Ted in a terry-cloth bathrobe and slippers. “Lulu!” he yelled down at me with his gap-toothed grin. “Welcome home! I been waitin’ up for ya! Let me show you where you’re sleeping!” Since Ted doesn’t know how to whisper, this greeting carried the decibel level of crashing cymbals. I cringed. He came down the stairs and embraced me before grabbing my suitcase and carrying it up the stairs, all the while telling me in his booming voice what a great week he had planned for us. Again I found myself moved by how much he genuinely wanted to make each of us welcome in his family. He showed me to my room and kissed me good night. He closed the door and I listened to the sound of his slippers swishing across the hardwood as he made his way toward the master bedroom directly across from mine. I fell asleep that night thinking here, in the most improbable place and in the most improbable person, I’d found a father.

  Jane woke us up the next morning for breakfast at eight A.M. I was rested and anxious to meet my future stepbrothers and sisters. We filed into the formal dining room with views out the back to several acres of sloping manicured lawn running down toward a small lake ringed in long leaf pines dripping with Spanish moss. There were also several black labs belonging to Ted and his children standing and lying at a respectful distance from the table, feigning disinterest in the sumptuous aroma wafting in from the kitchen located down a long hallway at the rear of the house. These weren’t just any labs. They were beautiful specimens with lustrous coats and were not just companions but well-trained and well-bred working dogs. Jane’s golden retriever, Spencer, born and raised in Los Angeles, looked like a prince among a crew of construction workers. But within the year Jane would have him trained and hunting with the best of ’em.

  The Turner kids were already seated when we Fonda kids (not used to such an early rising, especially during vacation) wandered in. I took a spot next to Teddy Jr., Ted’s oldest son. He greeted me warmly. He was a cuddly man with a boyish face and mischievous eyes. I couldn’t stop staring at the bobbing lump his chewing tobacco made tucked in a fold between his lip and lower gum as he talked.

  Beau, Ted’s youngest son, sat to my left. He was tall, handsome and charming—the spitting image of his father. Rhett was quiet and uncharacteristically introverted for a Turner. I’d later learn he was the artist of the bunch. Within a few years I’d attend his graduation from the prestigious Rhode Island School of Design, where he’d earn a degree in photography. Across from me sat Jenny, Ted’s youngest daughter. Blond, pretty and gregarious—what was not to love? But the true heart of the family was Laura, Ted’s oldest. She was a beauty as well but didn’t have the carefree attitude of her younger sister. Laura exuded an air of intelligence and a no-nonsense personality. Where Beau had Ted’s charm, Laura had his outspokenness. She was protective of her family, especially of her younger sister, Jenny. Her fiancé, Rutherford, was a lawyer and he was the epitome of a Southern gentleman, with a bit of a frat boy thrown in to make things interesting. Beyond all expectations, our blended family got on well. Conversation flowed easily and naturally between us.

  The table was dressed in the finest linens and silver cutlery. Once we were all seated, Jane rang a small silver bell in front of her and within minutes several African-American women came through the door carrying trays laden with cheese grits, bacon, eggs, hash browns, biscuits, pancakes, toast and freshly squeezed orange juice. I found the all-black staff a little too reminiscent of the antebellum South and so did my siblings. We also had to get used to our mom in the role of Southern mistress of the house.

  The staff, I learned, had had family working on the plantation for generations. I got to know the entire crew but got especially close to a few. There was Edward, a butler of sorts, a kind, dignified, quiet fellow who moved around the house with the stealth of a cat. While working he was the consummate professional, but in his off-time he loved to joke, and to witness him smile was like beholding one of the world wonders. Viola and Etty Lee were the cooks, capable of churning out Southern dishes that made you want to thank Jesus for taste buds. I loved to sit out on the back porch or in the room off the kitchen and help them shell peas or shuck corn and listen to them gossip. Rounding out the house staff was the lovely Betty Jean, one of the maids, with her smooth dark skin and long flowing hair that she wore in two braids that reached down past her bosom. My mom was particularly enamored with her and usually prefaced her name with “beautiful,” which she does even to this day.

  I often stole moments away from the family to visit with the staff in the kitchen, where they taught me how to remove buckshot from and defeather quail, and how to make the perfect pitcher of sweet tea. I was happy to learn that Ted was a good boss and paid his staff well; in turn they genuinely liked the Turners. I grew especially close to Jimmy Brown, an older black gentleman from the South Carolina low country with a strong geechie accent. He’d originally worked for Ted’s father and was like an older brother to a young Ted. When Ted grew up and took over his father’s company, Jimmy became his closest ally and helped raise Ted’s five children. Ted had made him a millionaire in his own right. Although he could afford to retire to some luxury resort on a tropical island, Jimmy chose to stay near the family where he could keep a close watch on them.

  The Turner kids viewed Jimmy as a bona fide member of the family, and when they had children, Jimmy (who never married) became a grandfather too. Like Ted, Jimmy was hard-working and, despite a disability that limited the full use of one of his arms and left him with a limp, he was always on the move and enjoyed spending as much time as possible outdoors. His favorite activity was fishing, which he did remarkably well with one arm. When I met Jimmy, he was dating the much younger Joann, the sweet-natured and soft-spoken daughter of the cook, Viola. Some of my fondest memories of Jimmy Brown were traveling with him on road trips between Ted’s plantations in Florida, Georgia and South Carolina. Jimmy didn’t like to fly and if Joann was unable to travel with him, I volunteered.

  Although our blended family got on remarkably well, there were a few things that would need to change. Ted insisted on structuring every aspect of the vacation. His idea of fun was not relaxing on the veranda with a hot chocolate or whiling away the afternoon in front of the television. He enjoyed spending nearly every minute doing something active and outdoors
y, and so he tended to run the vacation like he ran his businesses. We were expected to be on time for all activities and meals. Ted scheduled quail and deer hunts, and fishing for the predawn hours, breakfast at eight A.M., and more late-morning activities like skeet shooting and four-wheeling before lunch. After lunch there was horseback riding and nature walks. While his children were used to rising before the sun, formal meals and structured days (the Turner boys all attended The Citadel, a military college in South Carolina), we Fondas were wondering when we’d get a break from our vacation. The lull usually came in the evenings because Ted and Jane were blessedly in bed by 8:30 or 9 P.M., at which time we could count on being free and clear of Ted’s schedule.

  We spent the evenings in the Green Room, a masculine but cozy area off the dining room painted a deep forest green, with wainscoting and deep, leather armchairs. There was a large fireplace, which we kept roaring in the evenings. The walls were crowded with a virtual forest of mounted animal heads and more than a few prize fish, all bagged by Ted himself. In the midst of it all was a large TV and a library of the latest films. Under the empty gazes of dozens of herd animals, we Turner and Fonda kids bonded further watching films like Edward Scissorhands, Dances with Wolves, The Grifters and Pretty Woman.

  It didn’t take long for Vanessa and Nathalie to become representatives for us all and express our unhappiness with the scheduled fun. Ted took the criticism well and loosened the reins in terms of mandatory participation in activities, but maintained that meals together were not optional, though we would not have to dress up for them. We even got a few more healthy dishes included in the menu. Not only were we happy about the change but Ted also seemed less stressed, and I even think the Turner kids enjoyed the more relaxed atmosphere.