Cybill Disobedience Part 7

I indulged in regular therapeutic ma.s.sage to help cope with the stress of the shooting schedule, during which I could feel body and soul coming back together. One day my ma.s.seuse opened her big canvas bag and pulled out a tape called Woman's Spirit Woman's Spirit, a guided meditation with one's female ancestors. Lying on the backseat of my limousine on the way to the studio, I would listen to the tape and imagine myself in a field, holding my mother's hand, who was holding her mother's hand, who was holding her mother's and going back to a time of safety and peace. I was searching for a spiritual anchor, I needed to make G.o.d a holy and forgiving mother.

Despite ma.s.sage, I developed debilitating headaches and a back stiff enough to build condominiums. A friend recommended a chiropractor who was known to make house calls and "set calls" for actors. When Bruce Oppenheim came to treat me during a late shoot, it was close to midnight and there was hardly room for his table in my trailer. I'd never had chiropractic work, but he had such strong hands and worked so quickly that I didn't have time to get nervous. The disappearance of my headaches made me an instant believer, and his twisted sense of humor made me laugh. I started having "adjustments" about once a month, and with my skewed sense of boundaries, it didn't seem to matter if I was dating a health-care professional who was treating me. He didn't seem to be troubled by it either.

With the first serious money of my life, I bought a house at the end of a cul-de-sac in the Encino hills, framed by two stone lions. I removed the previous owner's expensive bad taste, and replaced it with my own expensive bad taste. Mother always said, "All your taste is in your mouth, girl." Behind sliding gla.s.s doors was a pool lined with small gold tiles that made me feel like I was swimming in liquid gold. Bruce brought me tea and melon in bed at the crack of dawn, then biked with me a dozen miles to the studio. Right before we left, I'd have a can of Mountain Dew plus a cup of coffee, so I felt like I had been shot out of a cannon. A teamster would drive me and the bike back at the end of the day, and Bruce often cooked dinner while I spent a little time with my daughter. He let me know that he'd never really considered having children of his own, but his relationship with seven-year-old Clementine was warm and affectionate. We already felt like a family.

Even though I was bone weary, I well knew the lesson about striking while the iron was hot--and I had lived through some cool-iron times--so I spent a springtime hiatus from Moonlighting Moonlighting doing a television remake of doing a television remake of The Long Hot Summer The Long Hot Summer, based on a short story called "'The Hamlet" by William Faulkner. I wanted to play the role originated by Joanne Woodward but was p.r.o.nounced "too pretty" (although hardly prettier than Don Johnson, the hot star of Miami Vice, who was playing the Paul Newman role). Such distinctions seemed unfathomable anyway when they gave the part to Judith Ivey, a lovely-looking actress who was deemed more serious, after making her do four screen tests and telling her she wasn't pretty enough. I was cast as the libidinous daughter-in-law originally played by Lee Remick.

The opulent homestead of the fict.i.tious Varner family in "Frenchman's Bend, Mississippi" was replicated by the Oak Alley Plantation in Thibodaux, Louisiana. It had an unpaved road lined by stately two-hundred-year-old live oaks draped with Spanish moss, leading up to the white-columned mansion. Its several caretaker cabins with screened porches had been converted to guest houses. A high levee with a gravel road on top separated the house and the river, and I walked there every chance I got.

On a job with such a large ensemble cast, there's lots of time to sit around, which means more time to read. One afternoon while waiting on the screen porch of one of the converted caretakers' cabins, the book I chose would have an enormous impact on the direction of my life. It was Outrageous Acts & Everyday Rebellion Outrageous Acts & Everyday Rebellion by Gloria Steinem. Although I had called myself a feminist for fifteen years, I realized I had not committed a single Outrageous Act in any public way to support women's reproductive freedom or any other civil rights issue. It was also around this time I became aware that Congress had disallowed funding for abortions for poor women. Pregnancy as punishment because you're poor? It was one of those big moments in life when you say, "Hold on a minute missy, that ain't right!" Determined finally to become part of the solution, I called Ms. magazine and asked to speak to Gloria Steinem, the magazine's founder, whom I had met briefly at a party in Manhattan a few years earlier. She took my call immediately and without wasting time. I asked what I could do to help the cause. by Gloria Steinem. Although I had called myself a feminist for fifteen years, I realized I had not committed a single Outrageous Act in any public way to support women's reproductive freedom or any other civil rights issue. It was also around this time I became aware that Congress had disallowed funding for abortions for poor women. Pregnancy as punishment because you're poor? It was one of those big moments in life when you say, "Hold on a minute missy, that ain't right!" Determined finally to become part of the solution, I called Ms. magazine and asked to speak to Gloria Steinem, the magazine's founder, whom I had met briefly at a party in Manhattan a few years earlier. She took my call immediately and without wasting time. I asked what I could do to help the cause.

There's a political action committee I'm involved with called Voters for Choice, she began. "They're in need of a strong morally committed spokesperson. Would you consider that?"

"Yes," I said without hesitation. I was finally on my way toward exorcising the demon of political inaction and apathy that had been brewing since my childhood when I had been surrounded by the racism of the segregated south. But once I started speaking out there was no stopping me. I marched on Washington for reproductive freedom and women's equality, I spoke at fund-raisers for pro-choice candidates like Ann Richards (governor of Texas), Barbara Boxer (senator from California), and Bill Clinton (president of the United States of America). I marched again on Washington for gay and lesbian rights, I helped dedicate the Civil Rights Museum in Memphis, and was called to testify before a House subcommittee on the U.S. approval for RU-486. To this day, I believe that any excuse to discriminate against any group of human beings violates their civil rights. Regardless of their skin color, religion, s.e.x, or s.e.xual preference, all people must be treated equally. To do otherwise is un-American. Because of my advocacy for these basic civil rights, Gloria Allred, my longtime friend and fighter for feminist issues, asked me to seriously consider running for president of the United States in the year 2000.

But let's go back to the fun and games on the set of The Long The Long Hot Hot Summer Summer. Don Johnson and I were aware of an intense attraction the minute we met. When ten journalists arrived for a press junket wanting to photograph the steamy scenes between us, they were astonished to hear that in the four-hour miniseries, there were none. I told the director and the producer, both separately and together, "You're crazy if you don't write at least one scene for Don and me." Unfortunately, it was a.s.sumed that I was trying to pad my part. Just because we were forbidden to explore our flirtation on-screen didn't mean we couldn't follow up on it in private. One night, as I relaxed on the screen porch of my little cabin, I heard a man's voice purr, "Ohhh, Miss Eula" (my character's name).

I responded, "Why, Mr. Ben Quick" (Don's character's name). "What are you doing here?"

"I'd just like to pay my respects, ma'am."

I opened the screen door a wedge. ''Why don't you come on in and sit a spell."

We lasted a nanosecond on the porch and then rapidly progressed to my bed. It was like wolfing down a candy bar when you're starving--fast, furious, intense--and it was all over in five minutes. Somehow we never got around to another five minutes, since "Mr. Quick" moved on to one of the hairdressers, who thereafter acted as if I had bad breath.

The gracious and genial Jason Robards, who was playing the family patriarch, was well loved by the crew, but Don was not a favorite. He told too many of them too often how they could do their jobs better. A palpable tension seemed to arise when he walked on the set and disappeared when he left. Everyone was in awe of Ava Gardner, who was playing the mistress of the domineering Will Varner. We hadn't done our one scene together yet and n.o.body, had bothered to introduce us. One night while we were shooting out in the middle of a swamp, the air-conditioning in my tiny trailer kept breaking down, and I decided to walk over to her trailer to say hi and introduce myself, I had just raised my hand to knock when the door flew open and slammed against the side of her trailer. Fortunately, I had leaped back into the darkness in the nick of time. I froze and watched, unseen in the shadows. Her hair was in rollers, and she was swaying, holding a bottle of white wine by the neck. Suddenly, she began screaming, "JASONNNNNNNNN!" I hightailed it out of there, but later that five mithe crew was setting up the dramatic fire finale and we were taking our places, I dared to approach her again.

"Ms. Gardner, I am thrilled to be working with you." It took her a while to focus on me. Then she belched out a slurpy, "SHADDDUPP!"

The next day around the motel pool, she seemed alert and agreeable, throwing her glorious neck back with a rich and l.u.s.tful laugh I. took one more risk. "Ms. Gardner," I said, extending a tentative handshake, "I'm Cybill Shepherd."

"Oh, h.e.l.lo!" She beamed, flashing that profoundly s.e.xy Ava Gardner smile. "It's so nice to meet you." The previous night had never happened.

Almost immediately I could tell that The Long Hot Summer The Long Hot Summer was going to be a stinker. In one scene I actually begged not to have a close-up, and they agreed. The miniseries was so bad it was appropriately dismissed as "irredeemable, paltry and barren" by the was going to be a stinker. In one scene I actually begged not to have a close-up, and they agreed. The miniseries was so bad it was appropriately dismissed as "irredeemable, paltry and barren" by the Washington Post Washington Post TV critic Tom Shales, who noted of my performance, "She seems playfully aware that the movie is garbage." It was shown on CBS opposite TV critic Tom Shales, who noted of my performance, "She seems playfully aware that the movie is garbage." It was shown on CBS opposite Moonlighting Moonlighting. Moonlighting Moonlighting won the time slot. won the time slot.

IN JANUARY 1987 I WAS GETTING DRESSED FOR THE Golden Globe Awards, and my dress didn't fit. There was no mistaking the reason. The stomach pooches out more quickly in a second pregnancy because the muscles have been pregnant before. By the time I scheduled a doctor's appointment, a test was a formality--I was so violently nauseated I couldn't eat. Golden Globe Awards, and my dress didn't fit. There was no mistaking the reason. The stomach pooches out more quickly in a second pregnancy because the muscles have been pregnant before. By the time I scheduled a doctor's appointment, a test was a formality--I was so violently nauseated I couldn't eat.

When the obstetrician got the results back from the lab, she called me. "Either you're further along in your pregnancy than you thought," she said, "or you're having twins."

I dismissed this possibility, even though my grandmother's sister and their grandmother had had twins.

It was recommended that I see a specialist for an early ultrasound. Two hours before the time of my appointment I was supposed to drink eight gla.s.ses of water (a full bladder lifts the uterus into a good position for a sonogram). I forgot and didn't start chugging on a big bottle of water until I was in the car on the way to the appointment, so when the doctor moved the probe over my abdomen, his face registered concern: he saw two amniotic sacs but he could detect only one heartbeat. I tried not to panic as I lay on the table in an ungainly position, pushing images of dead babies out of my head, while we waited for the water to do its thing. When the doctor came back to make another pa.s.s, his face brightened. A second heart was beating in syncopated rhythm with its sibling.

When I called Bruce at his office, I started with, "Honey, I want you to sit down."

"Why?" he said.

"Just do it," I insisted. "We're having twins." There was no response at first, then a slow "Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaa-"

"It could be worse," I interrupted. "It could be triplets."

A twin pregnancy is considered high risk for any woman, let alone one closing in on forty, and I had to see three different OB-GYNs before I found one who didn't make me feel doomed, reading me a riot act list of all the horrible things that could happen. I called Peg Burke, one of the midwives who had attended Clementine's birth eight years earlier.

"The rate of cesareans in Southern California is twenty-five percent," she said sympathetically. "Lotsa luck."

"There's got to be one doctor in Los Angeles who'll give me a chance for a natural delivery," I said. "Isn't there a nurse-midwife I can call?"

She suggested Nancy Boles, head of the midwifery program at the University of Southern California Medical School. I told her I understood that I needed to have a doctor present, but I wanted the same kind of midwife ntment rt I'd had when my first child was born.

"Yeah, I know," she said, the voice of resignation, "even though I've delivered two thousand sets of twins myself." I asked her to recommended a doctor, and she mentioned Jeffrey Phelan, who had recently published an article about a technique called "version," in which the doctor turns the unborn child into the proper position for birth. He had won Nancy's heart when she heard that he made his male medical students get up in the stirrups to see how their female patients felt during a pelvic exam.

People can be really dumb about a twin pregnancy. No woman who's given birth would ever say chirpily, "That's the way to do it: get it over with all at once." Dr. Phelan had a more experienced take. "I wish twin pregnancies on my enemies," he told me sympathetically, acknowledging the difficulty of dealing with twice the hormones, twice the heartburn, twice the discomfort, twice the nausea, twice the risk. I was not going to be a radiant bride.

I have a photograph of my mother and stepfather, Mondo (they had married eight years earlier), holding a shotgun at my wedding to Bruce, who made a happy adjustment in his thinking about parenthood. A rabbi p.r.o.nounced us man and wife in the shortest ceremony possible that was still legal. My gown was an antique ceremonial silk kimono, cream-colored with gold and orange fans. It was a wedding gift from my friend Kaori Turner (her mother had worn it), who also procured a black kimono for Bruce and a pink one for Clementine. The dining room of our house had been made into a j.a.panese tearoom, with rice-paper walls and tatami flooring. No shoes, which have always seemed a form of bondage to me, and no rings--I've never been big on jewelry.

Helicopters were circling over the house, trying to get a shot of us or celebrity guests. (There were none, just twenty close friends. My father couldn't be in the same room as my mother, my sister didn't want to travel, and my brother and I weren't talking to each other because we had a dispute about money. The photo exclusive went to David Hume Kennerly, who was one of Bruce's friends and had won a Pulitzer for his Vietnam War coverage and had been the White House photographer during the Ford administration. A tiered white cake with a porcelain bride and groom and two baby carriages followed a steak dinner--ironic, since I had been fired as a spokesperson for the Beef Council because a journalist wrote that I was trying to eat less red meat. My mother, who knew me to lick the steak platter before I washed it, had exclaimed. "Are they crazy?" and threatened to write the council a letter. But my attorney later told me that the real reason was because I was pregnant before I was married, a highly publicized fact.) I was asleep by seven o'clock. The next morning, I reported back to the set, and Bruce went into his office, working underneath an eight-by-ten glossy of me from my days as his patient, inscribed, "Dear Bruce, I've seldom had such a laying on of hands. Love and thanks, Cybill."

My pregnancy further widened the chasm between me and the producers, who reacted as if the news was a thoughtless inconvenience. Other television actresses had been allowed to work real-life pregnancies into plotlines and production schedules. When I suggested a similar approach to Glenn Caron, his response was a tepid, "Well, you don't leave me much choice." Despite the fact that I developed gestational diabetes and was forbidden to work during my last trimester, I occasionally went to the studio against doctor's orders. But Glenn continued to act as if I were personally, purposefully s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g him over (and would later claim that my pregnancy had destroyed Moonlighting Moonlighting). He attempted to accommodate the situation by having Maddie meet a short, stocky man on a train and marry him three days later. When I strongly voicd my objection that the character we had created in Maddie would never do such a thing, Glenn said words to the effect of "Just shut up and do your job, you're not producing this show."

I had doctor appointments every few days to ensure that the twins, whose welfare was compromised by the diabetes, were healthy and developing on schedule.

Eight-year-old Clementine, who had been begging for siblings, announced that she wanted to be present for their arrival. My midwife put together a slide show of some of her other births to prepare Clem for the noises Mommy would make, the presence of blood, and the fact that I would be in pain. After only two slides, Clementine put up her hand and said, "I don't want to see anymore, Mommy. Just call me when the babies are cleaned up.''

Soon thereafter, she announced, "I've changed my mind. I've decided I don't really want a brother and sister."

"Well, what should we do when they're born?" I asked calmly. "Should we throw them out the window?"

She frowned. "n.o.body ever asked me about this, you know," she said.

A few weeks later, she came to me with a proud plan. "When we get home from the hospital," she said brightly, "I'd like to put the babies in the washing machine."

"Really, honey?" I asked. "Why?"

"Because," she said, "I'd like to see them go around and around and around."

By my third trimester, I was so huge I began to resemble Marlon Brando. I could no longer get up off my futon on the floor, so I had a large platform built at the height of a normal bed. I still had to crawl to the edge and then push myself up. One early morning, I was awakened by an earthquake and in terror I stood straight up and jumped off the platform, running to see if Clementine was okay. She was, but my groin was not. I felt like I was walking around carrying two bowling b.a.l.l.s between my legs. Every night I prayed, "Please G.o.d, let me get over this pain before I go into labor."

A few weeks before my October due date, Mother and Mondo drove out to California in a motor home. Every night, we'd sit in the yard taking a moon bath, soaking up the beams and watching the waxing crescent get fatter and brighter. The moon affects all bodies of water, I figured, and my babies were floating in their own private pool. On October 6, 1987, the moon went full at 12:03 A.M. My water broke at 12:08. I listened to a tape of Kathleen Battle singing "Ave Maria" as Mother, Mondo, Bruce, and I drove to the brand-new California Medical Center downtown..

Molly Ariel and Cyrus Zachariah were born thirteen hours later, both named for their great-grandparents but known by their middle names, with a hyphenated Shepherd-Oppenheim. But those thirteen hours were harrowing.

In transit down the birth ca.n.a.l, Ariel had pushed Zach out of the way (a very determined female from the get-go), and he turned sideways. Something, probably his foot, lodged up under my ribs and felt like it was pulling me apart one bone at a time. At this point, I began begging for drugs and screaming, "Kill me! Kill me! Cut the babies out!" A few moments later, and before any drugs could be given, Ariel was born (five pounds, eleven ounces) followed by Zachariah (seven pounds, two ounces).

My entourage took over almost a whole floor of the hospital-Bruce, Mother, Mondo, Clementine, Myrtle, the midwife, three nurses, and a bodyguard. (I had forgotten to include the doctor's name on a list of people to be allowed admittance, and he had trouble getting in to see me.) I guess this was the most famous I've ever been. There were two photos on the front page of the New York Daily News Daily News, accompanying the headline: "ROBERT BORK LOSES/CYBILL'S TWINS DOING GREAT." This was great news all around. Not only were he twins healthy and happy, but the anti-choice Supreme Court nominee had been defeated. The paparazzi had been waiting at the front door of the hospital since before the babies were born, and everyday the guard caught someone who managed to sneak through with a camera. I knew that the best way to get photographers to stop swarming around me was not to try to run from them, but Bruce was afraid of flashes going off in the sensitive eyes of our newborns. We arranged for his brother to leave the hospital with a nurse in a blond wig, holding two Cabbage Patch dolls, while we attempted a more private exit out back. No one was fooled, and Bruce and I almost crashed into a lamppost when one photographer jumped on the hood of our car--a small risk, he probably considered, since photos of the babies were said to fetch up to $100,000.

Going from one to three children felt like going from one to ten; the effort and responsibility involved in parenthood increases exponentially. Before going back to work, I bought a forty-foot motor home, with plenty of room for the twins and their paraphernalia, including Bruce Willis' gift of a teeter-totter and Glenn Caron's two giant pandas. Beloved Myrtle kept insisting that she could handle the nannying single-handedly (she'd had thirteen children herself), but I didn't want to put that much of a burden on her, and finding capable, trustworthy people for child care is the challenge of every working mother. I hired one woman who seemed to have impeccable credentials, only to discover that she kept a bottle of rum in her purse. Another simply disappeared and was apprehended a few weeks later in Scottsdale, Arizona, wandering nude with pictures of Ariel and Zack in her hand, saying she was looking for her babies.

THE YEAR 1988 BEGAN PROPITIOUSLY WITH A ceremony in which I was given a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and it only cost me $4,322. Bruce Willis sent a telegram saying, "Sorry I can't be there, but one of us has to work." During this season of ceremony in which I was given a star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame, and it only cost me $4,322. Bruce Willis sent a telegram saying, "Sorry I can't be there, but one of us has to work." During this season of Moonlighting Moonlighting my dissatisfaction grew with the inimical atmosphere and changes in the way my character was written. Not only was she a virago, but she was starting to act bipolar. In an episode called "Yours Very Deadly," Maddie urges a female client to continue a correspondence with someone who has been sending the woman threatening letters. Maddie actually goes to this man's apartment, unarmed, pounding on the door, even though she knows him to be deaf and believes him to be a murderer. "No sane person would encourage a woman to engage with a hara.s.ser," I told Glenn, "and people who have experienced some fame are particularly sensitive to the dangers. I know that, and as a former model, Maddie Hayes would know it too." But Glenn was adamant that we keep to the story, and I gave it my best shot: the character acts bipolar, but with conviction. The next episode, "All Creatures Great and Small," dropped the little bomb that Maddie is an atheist. So. not only is she a cold b.i.t.c.h but she doesn't believe in G.o.d. My character could go no lower: a feminist atheist. my dissatisfaction grew with the inimical atmosphere and changes in the way my character was written. Not only was she a virago, but she was starting to act bipolar. In an episode called "Yours Very Deadly," Maddie urges a female client to continue a correspondence with someone who has been sending the woman threatening letters. Maddie actually goes to this man's apartment, unarmed, pounding on the door, even though she knows him to be deaf and believes him to be a murderer. "No sane person would encourage a woman to engage with a hara.s.ser," I told Glenn, "and people who have experienced some fame are particularly sensitive to the dangers. I know that, and as a former model, Maddie Hayes would know it too." But Glenn was adamant that we keep to the story, and I gave it my best shot: the character acts bipolar, but with conviction. The next episode, "All Creatures Great and Small," dropped the little bomb that Maddie is an atheist. So. not only is she a cold b.i.t.c.h but she doesn't believe in G.o.d. My character could go no lower: a feminist atheist.

Or so I thought. When Glenn came to talk to me about his idea for an episode called "Atomic Shakespeare" that would satirize The Taming of the Shrew, The Taming of the Shrew, my first question was "Who's going to play the shrew?" I was serious when I suggested some contemporary gender bending, making David Addison the termagant. Glenn was not amused. When I read the script, I found that my Elizabethan character was to be bound, gagged, and married off against her will while a whole town cheered, as part of her husband's bet with her father. Kate aka Maddie aka Cybill was made to be an impossibly unsympathetic character so that Petruchio aka David aka Bruce could score. I was certainly aware that my first question was "Who's going to play the shrew?" I was serious when I suggested some contemporary gender bending, making David Addison the termagant. Glenn was not amused. When I read the script, I found that my Elizabethan character was to be bound, gagged, and married off against her will while a whole town cheered, as part of her husband's bet with her father. Kate aka Maddie aka Cybill was made to be an impossibly unsympathetic character so that Petruchio aka David aka Bruce could score. I was certainly aware that Moonlighting Moonlighting was entertainment, not a political treatise, as I was aware that some women are aroused by bondage is shedie was definitely not turned on. In this case, binding and gagging was a symbol of violence against women--even Shakespeare didn't tame his shrew with ropes. was entertainment, not a political treatise, as I was aware that some women are aroused by bondage is shedie was definitely not turned on. In this case, binding and gagging was a symbol of violence against women--even Shakespeare didn't tame his shrew with ropes.

"Atomic Shakespeare" won more awards than any other episode, including Emmys for directing, editing, and costume design. I wore a sleeveless black velvet evening gown and Day-Glo orange high-tops to the ceremony, fully intending to change into pumps. It's a long ride to the Pasadena Civic Auditorium, and I had time to consider the prospect of an evening in pain. As my limousine pulled up to the curb, the driver said, "I'll wait for you to change your shoes."

"You can open the door now," I said. "I'm ready." I knew what I was doing--it was my personal rebellion against the tyranny of high heels--but people reacted as if I were naked. Actually, I felt that half the women there were cheering "Right on, sister," and half were muttering "You b.i.t.c.h." To this day, people are always checking out what I've got on my feet and seem disappointed if I'm in anything fancier than sneakers.

Bruce Willis was nominated again that year, but I was not. I went to the ceremony thinking: I'll be okay as long as he doesn't win I'll be okay as long as he doesn't win. (Nice team spirit.) He won. I smiled and applauded. I understand that many actors have done good work for years and not gotten awards for it, but this felt like a slap in the face, as if he were the motor that drove the show, as if I were dispensable.

In the episode "Big Man on Mulberry Street," when David Addison's former brother-in-law dies, he goes to New York, and Maddie, in a show of support, crashes the funeral. In a moving scene, David recalls marrying his pregnant girlfriend and hoping that he won't end up in a blue Sunoco uniform with DAVE st.i.tched over the pocket, then trying to keep the marriage going after his wife miscarries, only to come home one day to find the census taker on top of her, "getting all kinds of pertinent information that isn't on the form." When David's ex-wife admits that this infidelity was not with another man but with a woman, Maddie's reaction to this jaw-dropping news was cut. Even if the intent was to showcase Bruce, it would not have lessened the impact of his performance to see Maddie's reaction, and it hurt my character because it didn't show her humanity. The mutual sovereignty of the characters, the conflict between fully realized equals, was compromised. When I registered my complaint, Glenn told me I hadn't played the scene very well. The unspoken message was that I was a b.i.t.c.h; the salt in the wound was the news that I was a bad actress.

"Big Man on Mulberry Street" also had a musical number beautifully ch.o.r.eographed by Stanley Donen, the legendary director of Singing in the Singing in the Rain, with a soundtrack by Billy Joel. It was supposed to be Maddie's dream, but to me it looked a lot more like David's fantasy. Glenn said that he wasn't interested in my opinion, and when I approached Donen with my reservations, I saw him go absolutely cold, almost as if he'd been prepared for my being impossible. As I left the set after a rehearsal, I was so frustrated that I picked up a director's chair and threw it at the wall. The tabloids reported that I had heaved the chair at Glenn. (If I had wanted to hit him, I wouldn't have missed.) Rain, with a soundtrack by Billy Joel. It was supposed to be Maddie's dream, but to me it looked a lot more like David's fantasy. Glenn said that he wasn't interested in my opinion, and when I approached Donen with my reservations, I saw him go absolutely cold, almost as if he'd been prepared for my being impossible. As I left the set after a rehearsal, I was so frustrated that I picked up a director's chair and threw it at the wall. The tabloids reported that I had heaved the chair at Glenn. (If I had wanted to hit him, I wouldn't have missed.) The distinctive door slamming that became a leitmotif of the show was something I learned from Ernst Lubitsch movies, and studio carpenters had to rebuild the Blue Moon Agency doors every season because we slammed them so hard. But one of my most painful memories revolved around the door slamming in "Symphony in Knocked Flat." The script called for Maddie to arrive at work and slam her way through the office in a rage because she had a boring date the night before. I didn't think that a boring dt befohe night before was enough motivation for a hysterical tirade, and I ignored the stage direction, playing the scene more thoughtfully. I got away with it that time, but my next scene that required rage brought Glenn and Jay down to the set. We did it over and over, each time Glenn repeating, "That's not angry enough. Do it again." I felt so humiliated and upset that I began forgetting the lines I had known perfectly well when we started.

I watched the "Symphony" episode again recently and came away proud that I had followed my instincts and underplayed those two scenes. Though I still cringe at the thought of Glenn's and Jay's bullying, I'm so glad I defended the integrity of my character, Maddie, in the face of public embarra.s.sment. That episode represents truly wonderful work on everyone's part. And besides, how many people get to work with The Temptations and perform "Psychedelic Shack," like I did in the prologue to that episode?

Bruce became disenchanted with the cla.s.sic David Addison smarminess, sometimes throwing a script across the room and calling it s.h.i.t. Actors make a mistake when they act superior to the material. Good acting is like a tennis match. But somewhere along the way it felt like Bruce disconnected from what I was doing. It seemed as if he had already figured out all the moves, and it was far less exciting when the match between us was over.

One April day in 1988, I arrived for work fifteen minutes late to find an all points bulletin out for me. An a.s.sistant director approached my car as I drove onto the lot and said, "Cybill, don't bother getting out." Then he told the driver, "Take her right to Glenn's office." I felt like an intractable student summoned to the princ.i.p.al after sliding down the school banister--a bad acid flashback, and I'd never even taken acid. Jay Daniel and several people I didn't recognize were sitting in Glenn's office; Glenn was standing in front of his pinball machine and his jukebox loaded with 1960s rock and roll and every song by Tammy Wynette.

"You don't give a f.u.c.k about your work," he screamed the moment I walked in the door. "Your standards are down, and your ideas are c.r.a.p." I could hardly respond, his rage was so vehement. And while he screamed, Jay sat silent, not uttering a word in my defense.

A few weeks later, when we came to the end of the shooting season, I wrote Glenn a letter. "I want to do everything in my control to help the show," I wrote. "But I need you to know that for me to work effectively, it is absolutely necessary to avoid another performance like the one you gave when I was summoned to your office several weeks ago to hear your diatribe--all in the presence of complete strangers. I have enormous respect for the work you have done and for the show you have created, but I do not respect that behavior and I will not willingly be subjected to the kind of abuse that you unleashed at that meeting. I take my share of responsibility for some of the problems we have had in the past and will do everything I can to correct those problems."

During the hiatus I made a film called Chances Are Chances Are, a fantasy about a woman who remains devoted to the memory of her dead husband and falls in love with him again, reincarnated in the form of Robert Downey Jr. The producer was a pal of Ryan O'Neal and lobbied for him to play the family friend who's really been in love with my character all along. Considering our history, Ryan was the last person I wanted to work with. "Casting him is a great way to ruin this movie," I warned. But everybody else kept turning down the role, so we got him by default. (Turned out I was wrong. He was terrific.) I had avoided a love scene with him in real life, but I couldn't stop my nervous laughter when I had to kiss him on-camera. The director, Emile Ardolino, took me aside and whispered, &lquo;Could you please stop giggling? It's upsetting Ryan." Not an unreasonable request, and I stopped laughing by thinking of deaths in the family and biting my upper lip.

I thought the script would have been improved by dispensing with the reincarnation storyline and exploring a romance seldom seen on film between an older woman and a younger man, a relationship I've often played out in real life. The first day of rehearsal, Downey didn't show up or respond to phone calls. Somebody from the production office got the manager of his hotel to open the door of his room and found him in bed with a woman, sleeping off a bad night. It was apparent that he had substance abuse problems, and he was told that if he was ever late again, he would be fired. A monitor in the guise of a "trainer" was hired to keep him out of trouble for the remainder of the shooting schedule. I relished the experience of working with Emile Ardolino. As a director he pushed me beyond what I had thought of as my "dramatic limits" as an actor. Some years later, Emile stopped returning my phone calls. This is a common occurrence in Hollywood but hardly what I would have expected from Emile. About six months later, a mutual friend called and told me the sad truth: "Emile died of AIDS today." Now, whenever I cry as an actor part of my motivation is always the thought of Emile and missing him.

When production started on the new season of Moonlighting Moonlighting, I received a "personal and confidential" letter from the lawyers for Capital Cities/ABC, Inc., as did Bruce Willis. Attached was a list of "guidelines" regarding production, stating the network's right to cancel episodes or the series if the guidelines were not strictly followed. (Bruce and I would be responsible for the loss of revenue in such an event.) The normal day onstage, the memo stated, was from 7 A.M. to 7 P.M., but night work was at the producer's discretion. The production company would make every effort to deliver scripts one day in advance of shooting, but the script was nevertheless to be learned. The producers were to maintain a written record of the actors' work pattern during each day of production, including the time elapsed after being called to the set, which was not to exceed five minutes. Bathroom breaks were also limited to five minutes.

My lawyer responded to this demeaning memo by reminding ABC that I already had a contract governing my services; that nowhere in my agreement was the network given the right to impose additional terms and conditions, particularly those more suitable to a reform school; that I resented any attempt to impute to me responsibility for their cost overruns; and that such insinuations were defamatory, injurious to my reputation, and the cause of severe emotional distress.

One more letter arrived from ABC. Dispensing with the legalese, the gist of it was "Yeah, yeah, yeah." And with such posturing, the tempest was over.

In the fall of 1988, Glenn Caron left the show, stating that it was him or me and he didn't think the network would choose him. What had begun as an alliance between Glenn and me, as well as a newcomer named Bruce Willis, had turned into Glenn and Bruce against Cybill. Not only David Addison but Bruce Willis had become Glenn's alter ego and I became the troublemaker, the difficult one out to get them (whatever part I had in creating this I will forever regret). Recently, the pilot of Moonlighting Moonlighting was released on DVD. The disc includes almost nonstop commentary on the making of the series by the creator, Glenn Caron, and the star, Bruce Willis. Needless to say, I was not thrilled to be excluded, but now there can be no doubt that there had been and still is a boys' club to which I'm not invited. Glenn describes himself and Bruce as being virtually the same. They have similar backgrounds, the same things disgust them, and the same things make them laugh. The only ng that really matters is that a whole new audience is enjoying was released on DVD. The disc includes almost nonstop commentary on the making of the series by the creator, Glenn Caron, and the star, Bruce Willis. Needless to say, I was not thrilled to be excluded, but now there can be no doubt that there had been and still is a boys' club to which I'm not invited. Glenn describes himself and Bruce as being virtually the same. They have similar backgrounds, the same things disgust them, and the same things make them laugh. The only ng that really matters is that a whole new audience is enjoying Moonlighting Moonlighting on DVD as well as nightly on the Bravo network. And I'm really proud of the good work we did together. In any case, Jay Daniel took over as executive producer, and Roger Director, already working on the show as promoted to head writer. (He later wrote the roman on DVD as well as nightly on the Bravo network. And I'm really proud of the good work we did together. In any case, Jay Daniel took over as executive producer, and Roger Director, already working on the show as promoted to head writer. (He later wrote the roman a a clef clef A Place to Fall A Place to Fall, about a neurotic, petulant actor, and Bruce Willis threatened to punch him out.) The show lasted for two more years, and Peter Bogdanovich made a memorable guest appearance in an episode about all the men in Maddie's past. But with the success of the Die Hard Die Hard movies, it became clear that Bruce was ready to move on, that he had outgrown movies, it became clear that Bruce was ready to move on, that he had outgrown Moonlighting Moonlighting. He was so disdainful of the material that he often hadn't bothered to read it before arriving on the set. He was impatient about any time I spent in the trailer with the twins, although he increasingly wanted to leave early himself. I put up a punching bag on the set, suggesting that we hit it instead of each other. One day, when filming threatened to delay his early getaway, the whole set started to vibrate from Bruce's pummeling. Thank G.o.d for that bag.

One day, as nursing time for the twins approached, I asked to be released for a twenty-five-minute break. The first a.s.sistant director kept delaying it, so after about an hour, my motor-home driver turned on the walkie-talkie so that the whole set could hear the two screaming infants and announced "Cybill, it's time!" After that, I was free to go.

The final episode surely echoed the sentiments of viewers. "Can you really blame the audience?" a silhouetted producer asks Maddie and David. "A case of poison ivy is more fun than watching you two lately."

I was breaking up with two Bruces at once--Bruce Willis and Bruce Oppenheim. I will always regret that I never got to raise kids beyond the age of two with their fathers present. Children don't know from incompatibility. They only want Mom and Dad to live together in love with each other and with them. When Bruce got angry, he shouted, and when I got angry, I ran away. I'd never heard my parents have an argument. I observed their brawls and mutually cold, silent treatment. I had no sense of two people being able to negotiate conflict and come to a reasonable compromise. Operating under a veil of exhaustion and frustration from work, I gave up on my marriage.

Bruce and I were forced to work with a court-appointed counselor, both of us legitimately afraid that divorce would mean seeing the children a lot less. Our separation was the catalyst for what was surely long overdue therapy for me. I wheeled a big rolling rack of baggage into the therapist's office and took out one suitcase at a time, asking, "Is this because I'm an a.s.shole?"

Not long after the separation, I was walking on the treadmill and watching MTV. A video came on of a song by Martha Venessa Sharron, Ronald Lee Miller, and Kenny Hirsch called "If I Could." The lyrics moved me instantly to tears: "If I could. I'd teach you all the things I never learned / And help you cross all those bridges that I burned." I started weeping so profusely that I had to push the emergency b.u.t.ton on the treadmill to keep from falling down.

Chapter Ten.

"I'M CYBILL SHEPHERD, YOU KNOW, THE MOVIE STAR?"

I WAS TERRIFIED ABOUT MY PROSPECTS WHEN MOONLIGHTING MOONLIGHTING ended, and it didn't help to hear Joan Rivers dismiss me on her talk show as the head of the "f.u.c.king Lucky Club." It seemed like my luck was running out. I spent several years doing projects of no particular consequence, playing a collection of wives, nurses, b.i.t.c.hes, and sociopaths. ended, and it didn't help to hear Joan Rivers dismiss me on her talk show as the head of the "f.u.c.king Lucky Club." It seemed like my luck was running out. I spent several years doing projects of no particular consequence, playing a collection of wives, nurses, b.i.t.c.hes, and sociopaths.

The 1990 TV movie, Which Way Home Which Way Home was based on a true story about a nurse who rescues five orphans from a refugee camp subst.i.tuting Thailand for Cambodia. I asked my doctor for something to help me sleep on the long flight over, and he gave me Halcion, a potent narcotic that can erase short-term memory. When I arrived, somebody had to tell me where I was and why I was there. But I have distinct memories of a location shoot fraught with water problems. We were filming several hours south of Bangkok, staying in a city called Hua Hin (nicknamed Wh.o.r.e Hin by the crew for obvious reasons), and I swam in the soothing warm waters of the South China Sea, which glows at night with bioluminescent plankton. During one swim, some terrible creature wrapped itself around my calves, and I ran shrieking from the water to discover that my attacker was a plastic bag used to wrap the beach towels. was based on a true story about a nurse who rescues five orphans from a refugee camp subst.i.tuting Thailand for Cambodia. I asked my doctor for something to help me sleep on the long flight over, and he gave me Halcion, a potent narcotic that can erase short-term memory. When I arrived, somebody had to tell me where I was and why I was there. But I have distinct memories of a location shoot fraught with water problems. We were filming several hours south of Bangkok, staying in a city called Hua Hin (nicknamed Wh.o.r.e Hin by the crew for obvious reasons), and I swam in the soothing warm waters of the South China Sea, which glows at night with bioluminescent plankton. During one swim, some terrible creature wrapped itself around my calves, and I ran shrieking from the water to discover that my attacker was a plastic bag used to wrap the beach towels.

The ceiling, floor, even the wastebasket in my room were made of teak, and I kept thinking: This is where the rain forest is going. This is where the rain forest is going. The water in my shower contained some chemicals with interesting special effects. A week into shooting, the director of photography requested a private meeting. "I'm sorry to mention this," he said, "but your hair appears somewhat greenish on camera." I squeezed every available lemon in Southeast Asia on my head and sat in the sun. The water in my shower contained some chemicals with interesting special effects. A week into shooting, the director of photography requested a private meeting. "I'm sorry to mention this," he said, "but your hair appears somewhat greenish on camera." I squeezed every available lemon in Southeast Asia on my head and sat in the sun.

When we moved farther south to Bang Sephon, the floor, walls, and ceiling of my hotel bathroom were tiled. There was no shower curtain because the drain was in the middle of the room. I noticed that whatever was deposited in the toilet each morning would still be there at night. Not a good sign. When I returned at the end of the first day of shooting, covered from head to toe with sand and who knows what else from slogging through murky lagoons, I got into the shower and turned on the water. There were a few weak sputters and then nothing. Other crew members confirmed that they were experiencing the same drought, and I placed a call to the producer. "I'm a trooper," I said, "but I draw the line at a hot shower and a functional toilet. If the water isn't restored, I'm leaving for someplace where I know the plumbing works, like Southern California." The next day, in the predawn light, something that looked like a cement truck rumbled into the parking lot and disappeared behind the building. There were noises of plumbing and pipe fitting, and I had a trickly but wet shower.

What I loved best about Thailand was the food: savory soups for breakfast, midmorning snacks of cashews freshly roasted over fires, sticky rice with mangoes that look green but are lusciously ripe. There are a hundred different fruits never seen outside the country, and the familiar ones are as abundant as apples. You can hail a boat coming down the Chaou Praya River in Bangkok and buy a sack of fresh litchi nuts from the farmer (although I never did develop the local enthusiasm for one fruit whose name translates into "tastes like heaven, smells like h.e.l.l"). What I didn't love about the location was my dressing room: a bus with the seats taken out and furniture that rolled around as if on casters. I literally couldn't fit into its minuscule bathroom, so when I had to use the facilities, I cleared everybody out and stood in the hallway hoping for the best as I launched my a.s.s back toward the toilet.

PETER BOGDANOVICH HAD THE RIGHTS TO LARRY McMurtry's book McMurtry's book Texasville Texasville, a return to the characters of The The Last Last Picture Show Picture Show some thirty years later. (The frontispiece of the 1987 novel reads "For Cybill Shepherd.") Miraculously the entire cast from some thirty years later. (The frontispiece of the 1987 novel reads "For Cybill Shepherd.") Miraculously the entire cast from Picture Show Picture Show was rea.s.sembled. was rea.s.sembled.

The friendship between Peter and Larry had always been shaky--like two unfixed dogs, they snarled at each other from separate corners--but Larry and I were friends for life, or so I thought. A month before I went to Texas, he stopped returning my phone calls essentially vanishing from my life. It was odd to be filming the bo he had dedicated to me and not even know if I might turn a corner in Archer City and b.u.mp into him. There were other reasons why it wasn't my happiest experience: I felt like I was confronting the ghosts of the mistakes Peter and I had made, wreaking havoc in everyone's lives and not even ending up together. But the worst part of it was a custody court judge ordering my twenty-month-old twins to fly back and forth from Dallas to Los Angeles every other week to see their father, accompanied by a nanny. This forced separation meant that I had to stop nursing, which was physically and emotionally traumatic for me and the babies.

Larry McMurtry was the first person who'd ever sent me lilies, and he used to send them regularly. About a year after Texasville, a huge vase of cut lilies arrived at my home, and I ripped open the gift card with excitement, hoping that his long silence was broken. The flowers were from someone else, but they inspired me to write Larry a note about how much I missed him and our friendship, and he finally responded. That was when he explained why we weren't friends anymore. He thought I had acted too hastily in divorcing Bruce, accusing me of "throwing the baby out with the bathwater" somehow he turned himself into the rejected "baby"). When he realized he couldn't protect me from my "recklessness," he bolted. I resented his implication that my unhappiness wasn't real. Just became I had a pattern of being with the wrong man didn't mean I should stay with the latest wrong man.

In 1992 I was in Monte Carlo to shoot the feature Once Upon a Crime Once Upon a Crime. One day I was sitting across from Sean Young, one of the other actors. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed something... missing Was it possible? Good G.o.d, she wasn't wearing underpants. I finally said to her, "I'm shootin' squirrel from where I'm sitting." She smiled and crossed her legs, an agreeable colleague.

We were shooting at night, beginning when the last customer had left the grand casino and ending before the first customer arrived the next morning. While we waited for the casino to empty out one night, the cast went gambling. I didn't bet, but every person I stood next to lost. The next night, after I had filmed a scene with George Hamilton, he asked, "How would you like to come with me for breakfast?" The casino restaurant was closed, but George is a high roller, well known to the management, so they opened up just for us. We were still wearing our movie costumes--he in an immaculately cut tuxedo (his teeth blindingly white against his ubiquitous tan) and me in a Versace gown. We had raspberry souffle and Louis Roederer blush champagne.

As we walked through the restaurant's double doors, there was a roulette table. "I'm going to prove to you right now that you're not a jinx," said George. "Pick a number." I stood next to him breathless with worry and watched as he racked up $5,000, $10,000, $25,000, $50,000--in wins, not losses. "Let's go to Cartier and I'll buy you a watch," he suggested. I declined. I already had a watch.

AS SPOKESPERSON FOR VOTER'S CHOICE, I WAS invited--along with many others, including Gloria Steinem, Marlo Thomas and Whoopie Goldberg--to Washington, D.C., to lead the March for Women's Lives. At the fund-raiser the evening before I was seated next to a political consultant, born and raised in Chicago, who had stayed in Boston after law school and had become a kind of consigliere to the younger generation of Kennedys. He was a smart, funny, athletic feminist who had ma.s.sive amounts of curly brown hair with glints of red and gold. I fell. invited--along with many others, including Gloria Steinem, Marlo Thomas and Whoopie Goldberg--to Washington, D.C., to lead the March for Women's Lives. At the fund-raiser the evening before I was seated next to a political consultant, born and raised in Chicago, who had stayed in Boston after law school and had become a kind of consigliere to the younger generation of Kennedys. He was a smart, funny, athletic feminist who had ma.s.sive amounts of curly brown hair with glints of red and gold. I fell.

He was also G.U.--Geographically Undesirable. It was a struggle to find time together, and when I decided to build a house in Memphis he thought I was insane, suggesting Nantucket or Aspen as more appropriately exciting places. Though I had lots of family and old friends in Memphis I would have never considered building a home there if I hadn't made new, close friends: one is Sid Selvidge a brilliant folk singer and songwriter who produced my fourth CD, Somewhere Down the Road ( Somewhere Down the Road (which featured a duet with Peabo Bryson, one of the great voices of pop music); the other new friend was Betsy Goodman Burr Flannagan Belz. Like me, she's had three children with two different men. Betsy is a beautiful woman, and I find in her friendship a refreshing lack of envy. With Sid and Betsy, I gained a new brother and sister.

I finally got to build my dream house in downtown Memphis, up on the bluff overlooking the Mississippi River, and the local newspaper chose my home as one of the three worst eyesores in the city of Memphis. The other two are Pat's Pizza, which has been closed for twenty-five years, and my favorite junkyard on Main Street, filled with old carbine wheels, tow trucks, and patinated pieces of machinery.

In the fall of that year, I agreed to speak in San Francisco at a fund-raiser for Ann Richards, who was running for governor of Texas. The Consultant agreed to meet me there. It was the same day the Giants were playing the A's in the World Series at Candlestick Park. I got to the hotel first and had champagne and oysters waiting in the room. We had just started to make love when the earth moved, literally.

"What's happening?" he asked.

"An earthquake," I said.

"What do we do?"

"Get under the bed." Of course, there was no way to squeeze under a box spring for protection, and we huddled in the doorway until the earth stopped moving. The phone wasn't working, and we didn't know what kind of pandemonium we'd find outside, but my first thought was: Who knows when we'll get to eat again Who knows when we'll get to eat again? So we quickly polished off the champagne and oysters before walking downstairs to the lobby, dimly lit with emergency lighting. I looked over at the bar and thought: If I'm going to die, I might as well die happy If I'm going to die, I might as well die happy. Several margaritas later, we poked our heads outside, aware that the sounds of the city had been silenced, and saw a long black limousine parked in front of the hotel. I knocked on the driver's side, motioning for him to lower the window.

"Excuse me," I said deliberately, uttering words I had never used in my life, "I'm Cybill Shepherd. You know, the movie star? Could you please let me use your phone so I can call my kids and tell them I'm okay?" From the back of the limo, I heard a man's voice. "Cybill Shepherd? We're from Memphis. We're here for the World Series. Come on inside." We got in the car and saw the collapsed Bay Bridge on the tiny TV. Returning to the hotel, we were each handed a lit candle for the walk up seven flights, and all night long we listened to the repet.i.tion of inexplicable noises coining from Union Square: pop, pop, crash. Pop, pop, crash. It turned out that many of the windows in the Neiman Marcus building had cracked, and maintenance crews were knocking out the shards of gla.s.s before they could fall on pedestrians. The moment it was light, we made it to the airport. San Francisco survived the earthquake; our relationship didn't. But The Consultant will always be my favorite mistake.

Sometime in October 1992 I got a call from a mutual friend involved in the women's movement. There was going to be what turned out to be the largest march in history for gay and lesbian rights in Washington, and I immediately agreed to attend. As the April 1993 date approached, the march began to garner a good deal of publicity. I was told that because Roseanne was planning to charter a jet and bring a plane full of Hollywood celebrities, they really didn't need me. I asked if they had a seat for me on the plane. The answer was no. I called Paricia Ireland, the head of the National Organization for Women, to check to make sure I shouldn't go. She said that I should definitely go and, furthermore asked if I could attend a major fund-raiser the night before for the Human Rights Campaign Fund. I said sure, and the night of the event we raised a lot of money and lifted a lot of spirits. It turned out that Roseanne and her plane full of celebrities never materialized. The only Hollywood personalities whom I remember being there were Judith Light and myself. On the day of the march I was told that only gays and lesbians would be allowed to carry the banner. I staged my own little protest. I asked them, "Do you think Martin Luther King would have refused to let me carry the banner with him because of the color of my skin?" So I was allowed to carry the banner. It was a great honor, and it was one of my proudest moments as a parent when my thirteen-year-old daughter Clementine told me that since she felt so strongly about the issue, she wanted to march with me.

There had been talk in Memphis for years about someday building an interactive facility around the Lorraine Motel where Martin Luther King was killed. It was to be called the National Civil Rights Museum, and I was invited to speak at the dedication ceremony on January 20, 1992. It took me thirty-four years to actively become involved in the fight against racism. I received a plaque inscribed with the motto "equal opportunity and human dignity," followed by "Thank you Cybill Shepherd for helping break the chain of oppression."