Shirley Jones (26 page)

Poor Shaun was unhappy there and years afterward said, “Mom, you don’t know what kind of a place you sent me to. And you thought Beverly Hills High was bad!”

In fact, I did have an idea pretty soon after Shaun started there that the school in Bucks County wasn’t exactly a hotbed of virtue. One time, a couple of guys from there turned up at our house in LA. They both seemed sinister, and one of them ended up in jail on drug charges. We took Shaun out of that school after just a year.

When Shaun went on to become a rock star, he hated every minute of it. He could sing, and he liked performing, but he always loathed what came with it. Beforehand, we warned him about the pitfalls, but he just shrugged them off by saying that he had witnessed what had happened to David and wouldn’t fall into the same traps. David was the main reason Shaun became a rock star; he admired David so much that he followed in his footsteps. So Shaun, too, had a great career as a famous rock star from 1977 to 1979. Ruth Aarons became his manager and he had three platinum albums and five hit singles, including his album
Shaun Cassidy
, which went multiplatinum and led to his number one single, “Da Doo Ron Ron,” plus a Grammy nomination for Best New Artist.

However, despite his stratospheric success, Shaun was extremely uncomfortable as a teen idol. Completely immune to the glamour of being adored by millions and having a vast fan base, Shaun ran away from all the attention most of the time. Whenever we ate out at a restaurant and fans gathered in front, Shaun would beat a hasty exit out the back door. He just didn’t like the adulation and the lack of privacy.

He had another great success when he appeared in the TV series
The Hardy Boys/Nancy Drew Mysteries
. Fortunately for him, Jack had mellowed to such a degree that early in Shaun’s career, he actually went so far as to tell him that he was proud of him. And so was I.

In 1977, I played Laura Talbot, a murderess in the TV movie
Yesterday’s Child
, and had to smother a child, which was extremely difficult and unpleasant for me. Of course, the “child” was actually a doll, but I had a hard time smothering it all the same!

In the seventies, I took on a new and different gig as the spokesperson for the Sunbeam company (which manufactured home electrical products), promoting their products on the road, and did that right through the early eighties. This big deal paid extremely well.

Until the early eighties, I’d never been tempted to be unfaithful to Marty, but while I was promoting Sunbeam products, I was on the road a lot and, during that time, had a flirtation with a good-looking sales representative.

He came up to my hotel room, and we exchanged a few passionate kisses. He was ten years younger than Marty, and awfully attractive, but although he wanted to come and visit me when I was staying in my cabin in Big Bear, all alone, I refused to see him. I confessed everything to Marty and he understood and forgave me.

In 1979, I was excited to get my very own series,
Shirley
, in which I played Shirley Miller, a widow with three kids (including a daughter played by Rosanna Arquette) living in a farmhouse in the country, where I was inundated with men who wanted to date me. A terrific premise, I thought, and I had great hopes that
Shirley
would be as successful as
The Partridge Family
.

Television executive Fred Silverman, who created
All in the Family
,
The Waltons
, and
Charlie’s Angels
and had only recently been made president of NBC Entertainment, was the producer of
Shirley
, and he was highly encouraging, forever telling me how fabulous I was, and how wonderful the show was, after it debuted on October 26, 1979. Then, after we’d made thirteen episodes, I arrived at the studio bright and early one morning, ready to start recording the next episode of the show, and was told point-blank that the show had been canceled. No warning, nothing. Not a single word from Fred Silverman. Classic show-business behavior; everyone is all over you when you are successful, but woe betide you when you aren’t! I just hate that. Which is why, when all is said and done, I prefer animals to people.

Soon after
Shirley
was canceled, Marty and I were having dinner at the Polo Lounge in the Beverly Hills Hotel when, all of a sudden, I noticed that Fred Silverman was having dinner in one of the booths along with three women.

I turned round to Marty and said, “That asshole! I’m going to go over to him and tell him exactly what I think of him!”

Marty went chalk white. “Please, Shirley, please don’t do that.”

I calmed down, we finished our dinner, but as we were leaving, I strode straight over to Silverman’s table and gave him a piece of my mind. “You acted like you were my best friend, but you never said a word to me when the show was canceled!”

Silverman was speechless while I raged on. “And why was the show canceled, anyway?” I stormed.

“I . . . I tried to get in touch with you,” Silverman spluttered.

“Sure.” I stalked away.

Leaving Silverman in shocked silence.

Marty, who had never before seen me in one of my more forthright moments, said, “Are you crazy, Shirley?”

For once, it was my turn to be the crazy one in our marriage and take Marty utterly by surprise! And I was glad.

In the eighties, like many mothers, I was compelled to grapple with the tragedy of drug abuse. Ryan, always a frail and asthmatic child, had become addicted to marijuana and to cocaine. In retrospect, the signs were writ large: he started sleeping for most of the day, then staying out for most of the night. His school marks plummeted; so did his attendance. And Marty discovered that more than $2,000 was missing from his cash box. Only months later (when we had established that Ryan was taking drugs), after much probing on my part, did Ryan finally admit that he had stolen the money to fuel his drug habit.

Long before Ryan made his confession to me, Marty and I suspected that he might be taking drugs. But whatever our suspicions, Ryan wasn’t admitting anything, and we did not have conclusive proof. Only when Patrick came by one night and, with our consent, searched Ryan’s room, did we find evidence that he was doing cocaine. The Jack Cassidy habit of substance abuse had been handed down to his son Ryan, and I was devastated.

Marty did extensive research—one of the many things at which he is excellent—and, in November 1985, unearthed an innovative rehab center in another state far from California. The program offered there was for a year, and during that time Ryan would be banned from communicating with the outside world. Which, of course, included me. As the ultimate non-Jewish Jewish mother, the prospect of having all communication between me and my beloved youngest son severed was unbearable. But I knew that if Ryan was to beat his drug habit, I had to cut him loose from my apron strings and give him the chance to save himself.

Four days after Thanksgiving, an emotional time of the year under the best of circumstances, Ryan and I flew across the country together to the rehab center. When I met the director of the rehab center and he gave me further information about the program and what lay in store for Ryan, I almost grabbed Ryan and took him straight back to the airport. But I knew I had to keep strong for his sake. So I gritted my teeth and said good-bye to him. Soon after, his suitcase was shipped home to our house, full of Ryan’s belongings, even his toothbrush, as the rehab center dictated that he could bring nothing with him from his own home.

Once inside the facility, Ryan’s head was shaved and he was consigned to sleeping on the floor in a dormitory. Later, he would graduate to sleeping in a bunk. All in all, the psychology behind this rehab center mirrored that of the military: tear a new recruit down, then build him up.

Ryan was allowed no contact with his family, and when I committed the grave offense of writing to him myself, my letters were sent home to me, unopened. According to the rehab center’s strict rules, I wasn’t even permitted to speak to my son on the telephone.

However, the rehab center’s director did take my calls, and we talked continually, updating me on Ryan’s progress. After five months, the management made an exception, and I was allowed to see Ryan at last.

The moment I set eyes on him, I was unnerved. He was rake thin, his head was shaved, and he was smoking heavily. He reminded me of a prison inmate. He never stopped talking and almost seemed high. I was terrified, but reluctant as I was to leave him, I returned to Los Angeles with a heavy heart.

Ryan remained at the rehab center for another thirteen months, then Patrick, who was deeply concerned about him, flew out to see him. When Patrick arrived, he didn’t like the condition in which he found Ryan and swore on the spot to take him home right away.

Problem was, Ryan wanted to be true to his pledge to stay the course at the rehab center and didn’t want to let down his friends there by cutting, running, and abandoning them. But Patrick’s mind was made up. This particular rehab program wasn’t good for his brother, and Patrick was taking him home with him, no matter what.

Ryan resisted Patrick’s pleas to leave the center until, in the eleventh hour, shortly before his plane was due to take off, Patrick told Ryan that his car was waiting outside, and that Ryan ought to leave with him. Ryan plucked up his courage and informed the man in charge that he was leaving. He was going home. As he did, every single resident in the place turned his back on Ryan in disdain.

As Patrick told us later, Ryan then trudged upstairs to his room, but once he got there had to crawl on his hands and knees to get his belongings, as residents were forbidden to walk upright around their own bunks. Then he threw everything into a trash bag, picked it up, and followed Patrick into the car.

When Ryan’s plane landed at Los Angeles airport, we were all there, waiting for him. As he deplaned, I saw immediately that he had undergone an immense change. His hair was in a crew cut, his clothes were torn, and he looked for all the world as if he had been in a combat zone.

Once Ryan arrived home, he went from room to room, touching everything, the tears running down his cheeks as he did. When I think of that day, I can’t help crying myself.

Since then, I am so happy to say, Ryan has been clean.

In 1988, I sang “God Bless America” for President Reagan at the last night of the Republican National Convention. The occasion was moving, and I was honored to be singing for the president. At the same time, I couldn’t help remembering one night at Chasen’s with Jack, many, many years before.

Ronald Reagan was then president of the Screen Actors Guild, he was having dinner that night at Chasen’s, as well. Later on that evening, he and Jack ended up in the men’s room at the same time.

Jack, who’d known Reagan for years, said, “How are you doing, Ronnie?”

“I’m doing dreadfully, Jack. I’ve got no work, and I don’t think I’m ever going to work again. It’s terrible.”

“Oh, I can’t believe that, Ronnie” was Jack’s heartfelt reaction.

Jack came back to the table, told me the story, and, although he liked Ronnie, noted, “He probably isn’t the best actor in the world.”