As I Knew Him: My Dad, Rod Serling

ON THE LATE SUMMER evening of August 8, 1974, my friend Rochelle and I are in the new house my parents built in 1970 beside the old red cottage (where I am staying). It is very different from the cottage and with all of the openness and conveniences of a modern home. The kitchen and living room are separated by a stone fireplace, and each room has an abundance of light pouring through numerous glass doors and windows.

Rochelle and I are sitting on the floor of my dad’s study, a room much larger than the little shed that he once used near the cottage. The sliding glass doors are partially closed and we can see a portion of my father’s reflection behind us. We are all turned toward the small television on his desk.

Richard Milhous Nixon is just beginning his resignation speech:

“Good evening. This is the thirty-seventh time I have spoken to you from this office, where so many decisions have been made that shaped the history of this nation. Each time I have done so to discuss with you some matter that I believe affected the national interest . . .”

Nixon goes on and on and finally my dad, walking closer to the television, says, “They ought to hang the bastard by his balls.” He looks back at us and adds, “Sorry, girls.”

In a speech my father later gives in Binghamton, he puts it a little more eloquently:

The use of illegal wiretaps to spy on reporters and political opponents, the secret and illegal bombing of Cambodia, the authorization of “plumbers” to burglarize and spy upon political opponents, the withholding of evidence in criminal cases, the defying of court orders, the obstruction of justice—this is the province of President Nixon and all the rest of that shabby crew who have written indelible chapters in the threadbare saga of the most corrupt, incompetent and downright immoral administration in the history of the American Republic.

The final few weeks of the summer following Nixon’s resignation, my dad is working on an adaptation of a political thriller. It’s a book by Morris West called The Salamander. He is doing the screenplay for Carlo Ponti and later describes it in an interview as “a very difficult, ball-breaking script [that is] beginning to destroy me piecemeal.”

Although I am generally three thousand miles away (with the exception of summers and vacations) and not home to witness my dad’s day-to-day life, his professional struggles, or the inordinate time I know he puts into his work, writing, rewriting, perfecting, I sense the level of distress and difficulty that he is having with this project. And it seems so uncharacteristic. Writing always appears to come so naturally, spontaneously, almost instinctively for him. But not this time.

I think he’s tired, maybe feeling old. One night at dinner he talks about having grandchildren and how he looks forward to sitting on the porch and playing with them. He wants to rest awhile but, immersed in this difficult project, he doesn’t know how to step away.

A few days before I leave for school, I pass by his partially open office door and see him working. He is leaning back, holding the Dictaphone microphone in his right hand. The room is silent and smoky. He does not look up. He seems to not even be moving. The cigarette glows orange in a jam-packed ashtray on the desk before him. I raise my hand to knock. I start to call, “Dad?” but change my mind and walk away. I decide not to disturb him after all.

Three months later my parents finally take a vacation. My father, still entrenched in this screenplay, has also completed twenty-seven of the twenty-eight narrations he will do for The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau. He writes me at school on the night before he and my mother leave:

I was disappointed not to be able to talk to you tonight when you called. I’d hoped to say goodbye before our trip tomorrow night. As usual, I’m counting the hours for the boat whistle to blow. Mom, on the other hand, has some misgivings about the journey—not nearly as content as I am to just sit in the sun, staring at the waves. I think she’s taking this trip for my benefit more than anything else.

She said that you sounded much more content on the phone tonight and much more with it—and for this I’m thankful.

Much love, small raisin—
Dad

At school, walking through fresh snow to class, I think of something my father once wrote before The Twilight Zone aired its final show: “In these last few years, I’ve written so much I’m woozy. If only I could take off about six months and replenish the well.”

I remove his letter, still in my pocket, unfold it, and read it again. He indisputably needs the rest but the “well,” I am convinced, will never run dry. He just needs to get away, and this cruise they are taking to Mexico is the perfect salve. The minute he and my mother step onto the boat, he will not have access to a phone, an agent, a director, producer, or anything connected with work. He cannot reach back even if he wants to.

When they return, following a quick phone call, my dad sends a note:

My Dear Miss Grumple.

I know I promised you a long letter—(not a rose garden—a long letter) and this itsy bitsy one doesn’t nearly satisfy that description. But at least you know I’m thinking of you and missing you.

Is the cold improved? Are the studies coming along?

Love, Daddy-Boy

I write him back. Things are better. I have met a new boyfriend. Although not Jewish (I think my dad would have liked it if he were), Ken is a great guy, an artist who does phenomenal political cartoons. I quickly add that, yes, of course he is a Democrat. I don’t tell him how one night Ken crawled up the drainpipe to my dorm room to see me past curfew and appeared at my window, but I should have. He would have loved that, so adventurous, ballsy, so like something he would have done . . . or very likely may have.