Second Circle
SECOND CIRCLE
By Kathy Wilhoite
Mid-November, a friend posted on my FaceBook page an article Anthony Edwards had written. We called him “Tony” back in the day. We grew up together in Santa Barbara. Some of my fondest memories of my high school days were with Tony and another kid named Scott Drnavich. I poured myself a cup of coffee, sat down at my computer and read Tony’s piece. My eyes welled up. I could barely breathe. I felt like I’d been gut-punched. He wrote about having been molested as a child by Gary Goddard, a man I revered and reviled behind his back for years. I reposted Tony’s story with the heading “Tony is Brave,” and very quickly came a flurry of responses. People from the Santa Barbara theater community crawled out of the woodwork to tell their stories. We all knew about Gary. Many of us had seen it, or suspected it, or were victims of it.
Bret Nighman, one of my FaceBook friends, someone I haven’t seen in thirty years, saw the article I’d posted, and wrote his own piece corroborating Tony’s story. Another guy, Mark Driscoll came forward. With Bret and my friend David’s encouragement, I felt compelled to write my own experience with Gary Goddard.
Keep in mind this stuff happened in the seventies and early eighties. It was a different time. We didn’t have cellphones. Homosexuals in our town were often bullied and shamed.
Now that I’m a drama teacher myself, I see daily how careful we are in the University to create for our students, what’s called, “safe spaces,” or, another term describing a place for actors to show their hearts and not be abused or chastised for it — “Brave Spaces.” We didn’t have safe or brave spaces when we were coming up in theater. The theater I grew up in was a boundary-less universe, filled with cruelty and biting humor, crippling opinions, and unwarranted sexual advances, but, indisputably, magic happened, excellence, artistry, joy and a ton of laughs. We hugged, we created, we touched and teased and fell in love, sang out, we cried, stomped our feet, danced and raised our voices. Things were said and done that still resonate with many of us to this day.
Tony coming forward and sharing his experience, his strength and his hope that through disclosing what had happened, he might stop Gary from molesting another boy in the future has created a brave space for people, for those who were molested, and for those who, like me, knew about it, but stayed silent.
I was surprised, as I dredged up the past, how heavy my heart became. I had thought maybe it was because of the despair I felt for my old friends that had endured being molested by Goddard, and had to suffer the burden of carrying the secret and shame for so long, or that maybe the source of my tears was that thinking about those days reminded me of how much I missed my friends who have died, but then I realized perhaps some of my grief was due to the part of the story I hope to shine a light on, which is — why and how, those of us who loved Goddard’s victims surrendered to his gag-order for so long. Was that the widespread result of the “grooming” process the child molestation professionals talk about? Goddard must have been a genius at it because theater people, as a population, live loud and proud. We train for years in telling the truth. I have three children of my own and have actually referred to myself as a “mother tiger type.” It sickens me to think of how many people Gary might not have molested had one of us found the courage to do something to stop him. Tony, Bret and Mark have found that courage. I support them, and will offer up my tale as an exploration and a testament as to how a loudmouth like me kept my mouth shut for years.
After I finished writing my experience, I was troubled as to why I was compelled to change many of the names, and then it occurred to me — I did it to protect the innocent — That’s what we all were, after all. Before Gary Goddard got a hold of us, we were innocent.
My best friends Brad Bauer and Roseanna Vitetta called them “Goddardites.” They were a small group of select boys — all of them wildly talented, all of them cute, funny, prone to breaking into a song and a dance at a moment’s notice, and many of them, molested. Apparently, Gary Goddard and I had had the same taste in boys. The only difference being — I was an adolescent, and he was a grown man.
My first kiss was when I was thirteen years old with a boy I’ll call “Charlie,” since he hasn’t come forward yet. It happened on the rooftop of McConnell’s Ice Cream Shop. There was a Santa Barbara tradition of painting graffiti on a life-size plaster cow perched on the roof above the entrance on Milpas Street. Of course it wasn’t the kind of graffiti one would associate with a gang of renegade street kids. We were theater people, “drama dorks,” and proud of it. We painted “Half a Sixpence,” along with the dates of the show and ticket information. I remember smoking too much weed and stumbling on a rain gutter. Instead of falling off the roof, I fell into the arms of the eighth-grader of my dreams, Charlie. He lifted his Newsboy cap and kissed me. I swooned at how lucky I was to have found a boy that was so cute, so smart, so funny and talented. It wasn’t until a few weeks later, after we had established that we “like-liked” each other that Brad and Roseanna introduced to me the term to describe the boys Goddard favored, “The Goddardites.” They said that my new boyfriend was one of them, and may very likely have been molested.
I was horrified and confronted Charlie about it. His eyes instantly welled up with tears. He told me that I was dead wrong, that Gary was a father figure to him. Gary would never do anything to hurt him.
I remember saying, “But Brad said that when Gary directed him in Peter Pan, he had seen him molesting boys when they took the show out on the road. He saw him climb into people’s sleeping bags and do stuff to them while they were either asleep or too groggy to fight him off.”
“You’re wrong,” said Charlie. “Brad is spreading rumors. He’s just jealous because Gary doesn’t want to help him with his career.”
It was a credible defense because Brad was bitter and full of rage about Gary. I had always wondered why he hated him so much. If it weren’t for Gary he wouldn’t have gotten those great reviews for his portrayal of Peter Pan’s “Captain Hook.”
What I’ve come to realize more than three decades later, is that although, most of Gary’s victims were straight boys, he often targeted those who had been struggling with their homosexuality and/or had troubled family lives. Gary had targeted Brad. Brad’s mom was suicidal, and his dad hated that he was gay. I didn’t know until just last week when another one of Gary’s victims told me that Brad had said that when Gary was molesting him, he would just “lie there and take it.” I wish, so much, Brad was alive today to tell his story, but, like many of the theater people I knew back then, AIDS and alcoholism took him out too soon.
So, when Charlie told me that Brad was just jealous, I had been satisfied with his explanation and never spoke of it with him again. I enjoyed my summer fling with Charlie. Half a Sixpence closed, and once September rolled around, Charlie and I broke up. I don’t remember being too heartbroken about it. I had been cast as Meip, in my junior-high-school’s production of The Diary of Anne Frank, and had research to do on my character.
The next Goddardite encounter was later that spring when Gary helped our junior high school drama teacher out with some choreography for the big musical. One day, in the middle of rehearsal, Goddard burst through the double doors in the back of the theater.
“Who’s that?” I whispered to my best friend, Heather Schatz.
“Gary Goddard.”
“Wow. Not what I expected.” Based on the things Brad had been telling me, I had imagined Gary to be a slick, scowling, showbiz guy, with dark hair and beady eyes, but he wasn’t. He had a Teddy Bear quality, blue eyes that sparkled, curly hair — a man who had never grown out of his boyish features. He entered laughing, sauntering down the aisle like a rock star, followed by four Goddardite boys, who laughed just like he did.
Gary hustled them across a row of auditorium seats. “Guys, guys. Calm down. Come on, pull it together.”
Their laughter subsided, but those of us on stage couldn’t help but wonder if they were making fun of us.
When Mrs. Luke, our drama teacher, introduced them, one of the boys put his feet on the seat in front of him, laced his fingers behind his head, daring her to admonish him.
I whispered to Heather, “Holy crap, she never lets us put our feet on the seats. Why is she not saying anything?”
“Those are the Goddardite boys. Gary directed them in sold-out shows of Jesus Christ Superstar at the Santa Barbara County Bowl. She’s not going to say a word.”
“Whoa,” I said, and took note of the freckled one staring at me, smiling.
“Hey! Hey! Wilhoite!” Goddard said. “Stop flirting. Pay attention.” I couldn’t believe he knew my name. Of course the minor tweak he’d made to the choreography in our show turned the whole number around. He left with the tip of an imaginary hat, and walked out the way he came, boys in tow, breaking into some “We’re off to see the Wizard” dance moves, landing with perfect Bob Fosse panache. The freckled one turned back before the doors swung shut behind him and gave me a nod. I nodded back. I leaned over to Heather and whispered, “Good God. What just happened?”
I didn’t see any of them again until I was a sophomore at Santa Barbara High School. Heather had a sister, who was a ballerina with the Santa Barbara Ballet Theater and had performed The Nutcracker with the hilarious and wildly talented Scott Drnavich. She introduced us, and Scott introduced us to Tony. Tony, Scott, Heather and I became fast friends. We laughed our asses off that year, going to school dances, singing show tunes, pretending to be fashion models wearing Drnavich Originals while Scott took our pictures. We went to football games, The Rocky Horror Picture Show in Isla Vista, local theater productions — and at some point Tony became my boyfriend. Throughout the period when we were dating, I kept hearing whispers from Brad, Roseanna and others about the Goddardites, and how they were being molested. I’d answer back with the “You’re just jealous because Gary never helped you get an agent in Hollywood” line. Brad would roll his eyes and stick his finger down his throat, pretending to make himself barf.
One night, on the way to our make-out spot off of Sheffield Drive, I mentioned to Tony that it wasn’t just Brad, but others were talking about Gary diddling boys.
Whether it was because of shame or guilt, or a sense of obligation to his mentor, or because Tony was so thoroughly under Gary’s influence, he couldn’t speak out. He fiercely denied it.
I didn’t know what to say. It was his word against theirs, and he was the one I cared about. I stared out at the lights reflecting off the water from the oil derricks while my mind drifted to questions of why: Why would so many people lie about that? How come the boys I date get so defensive and on the verge of tears every time the subject comes up? Why is the list growing of people insisting Goddard was a pedophile?
Soon, the subject changed, and Tony and I got back to musing about our futures. He said I should always remember that there was “life after high school,” and that I needed to get out of Santa Barbara as soon as possible and move down to LA or New York. None of us questioned whether we’d become movie stars. It was just a matter of when. I refused to believe that pulsing underneath these big dreams of ours was a sinister alternate reality. The things Brad had described seemed too weird and horrible to be true: blow jobs in the sleeping bags of boys, groggily trying to fend off a grown man, and then finally succumbing after being overpowered and manipulated. It was unimaginable. The Gary that Scott, Tony and Charlie told me about got them agents, paid for expensive head-shots, set them up on auditions, helped them with their acting jobs, got them free tickets to Disneyland, and Knotts Berry Farm.
Brad continued to try to convince me that Gary was molesting people, but I refused to believe him. He had started drinking and doing a lot of drugs, something Gary never approved of. The Goddardite boys were clean and wholesome. Goddard used to make jokes about how Brad was a lost cause and a loser. My head became filled with stories about what a great guy Gary was, that he’d do anything to help the boys. When they needed money, he’d give it to them. When they needed a place to stay in Los Angeles, he’d offer up his couch. He had gotten another one of the Goddardite boys, Mickey, [not his real name] to turn his favorite novel into a screenplay. He financed Charlie’s short film. He was always there for them, with a shoulder to cry on, or tickets to a Broadway show. I got the impression the guys felt sorry for me because I was younger than they were, and Gary had said he wasn’t going to direct anything in Santa Barbara anymore. He had changed the name of his company from “Gary Goddard Productions,” to the much more impressive “Landmark Entertainment.” I felt so lucky that I knew people who were on the ground floor of a show biz empire — rumors be damned. They’re just rumors. Brad’s crazy. Everything Gary touches turns to gold.
Later on that year, Tony broke up with me for the star of Little Mary Sunshine, and that was the end of that. I was crushed, but moved on. I’d been cast as “Reno Sweeny” in Anything Goes, and told myself to get over it. As they say, “The Show must go on.”
A few years later, another Goddardite, Mickey came into my life. He played piano at the auditions for Santa Barbara Youth Theater’s production of The Pajama Game and later played the trumpet in the orchestra, which was convenient because I had been cast as the ingénue, and loved singing, “Hey, there, you with the stars in your eyes . . .” to him in the pit. Not long after that, we were dating.
Another summer romance was off and running. Mickey and I wrote songs to each other, had long walks on the beach, sang harmonies to James Taylor and Paul Simon records. The few things I remember most about my time with Mickey were his jokes, the mouthpiece to his trumpet he kept in the ashtray of his car that he’d play along with the radio, and that he, too, talked about how “there was life after high school.” I figured then that the “life after high school” bit must have been a Gary-thing.
We broke up when Mickey went back to college in the fall. His parting gift to me was getting Gary to drive up to Santa Barbara to see my senior play House of Blue Leaves. After the show, Goddard came backstage and told me that he’d keep an eye out for me if he heard of any television or film projects I might be right for. This felt like a dream come true for me. The only people I knew who worked as actors in Hollywood all had the same thing in common: Gary Goddard.
In the fall I followed in Tony and Mickey’s footsteps and went to the University of Southern California. Three weeks into the school year, I got a call from Gary, who told me about an audition for role that required a comedian who could play a sixteen-year-old. I went to the audition on a Friday, and on Monday, was pulling up to the location of my first professional acting job. Gary had started my career. I did owe it all to him. I was on my way. I was making a fortune, and it was all because of Gary. He believed in me. He thought I was talented.
Gary had become manager to many of us, many of whom, when asked, would say that if it weren’t for Gary we would have never left Santa Barbara. So, when I became involved with him, all I saw was the confidant, father figure the Goddardite boys had told me about. I saw a warm, jolly, fun-loving, soulful guy, who cracked me up, and engaged me in great conversations about effective storytelling and idle dreams, who asked me how many hours a day I devoted to my career and told me to set goals for myself. He said that losers were the ones who didn’t do “whatever it takes” to make things happen in their lives. He teased me mercilessly, and I loved it. He’d take us all out for expensive dinners, and I’d look around the table at the laughing engaged faces of these wildly talented boys, and I’d think to myself, I did it. Me, a self-identified tomboy — I was finally in on the inside jokes. I was a girl Goddardite.
I remember a resurgence of Goddardite rumors heating up again. I had been cast as “Anybody’s” in Westside Story, and the boy who played “Action” that I had a crush on had been in Goddard’s production of Oliver. He joined in with Brad and Rose Anna, and the chorus of accusers. In one ear, they’d tell me that Gary had something against gay kids because he tended to spurn them after molesting them, that he’d pick on people no one would believe if they ever told — and in the other ear, another friend mine, Patrick [not his real name], also managed by Gary, would say that when Gary made a pass at him, he told Gary he wasn’t into it, and he stopped and never tried again. He said that if anyone said “No,” Gary wouldn’t touch them. He maintained that Gary always gave them a choice. But, I’d argue, many of these incidents happened when we were in junior high school. What choice did guys like Charlie, Tony, Scott, Brad or Bret Nighman have if they felt like they would never get cast in anything, or would never have a career if they didn’t let Gary do what he wanted, or that Gary would withhold his love and support if they ever told? Patrick and I, to this day, go back and forth on this. He’s brought up the argument that Gary was in his twenties when he directed Peter Pan and that if Gary was female, the guys he’d had “affairs” with would have gotten high-fives for their sexual encounters. Patrick was convincing, but it still didn’t sit right with me. I’d contrast Patrick’s point of view with the look I’d seen in Charlie’s eyes when I brought it up, or how vehemently Mickey and Tony would deny it. And then, there was Brad and the consistent drumbeat of his claims pounding in my conscience. It was getting harder and harder to deny, and yet I held tight to the party line that the people making up stories were lying because they were bitter that they didn’t have the deep and intense friendship with Gary that we all had.
Once I started working as an actress, Gary frequently took me out to dinner. Our relationship grew. I thought I was falling in love with him, until it dawned on me that the friendship was entirely one-sided. We never talked about him. All we talked about was me, my eighteen-year-old dreams, my insecurities, my problems, which, due to the progression of my alcoholism were starting to ramp up. The more of a mess I made of my life, the more Gary would try to help. Now he was moving into the role of codependent, savior, mentor, manager, and life-coach. He was my last hope of ever being normal. I so wanted to be a wholesome, clean-cut American kid like the boys, but I knew I was a fake. It was a matter of time before they all found out. My days were numbered as a girl Goddardite. I was never going to be like them. First of all, I wasn’t a boy. I was a sappy girl, who liked to smoke, drink, take drugs and have sex.
I became weary of talking about myself all the time, so I tried to turn the tables. I asked him all of the questions I promised I’d never ask. None of which he answered. I teased him about the Goddardites and the boy-diddling rumors, which he fended off with jokes, and by telling me that if his crime was that he genuinely cared about these guys, than he was guilty as charged. He insisted he would never do anything to hurt them, but I was eighteen now, living on my own, paying my bills, so his justifications sounded flimsy.
One night, I got drunk with Gary, or maybe I should say that just me got drunk. We went back to his place. We kissed, and he carried me off to the bedroom. I was a blackout drinker, and no longer a virgin, so I didn’t feel victimized by it. I very well may have initiated it. I don’t include this part of my Goddard story as a claim that I was one of his victims. I include it because after it happened, I drove away feeling like the bubble had burst. The idea that Gary was selflessly helping me, wanting nothing but friendship from me, had been smashed. When I told Brad about it, he said he wasn’t surprised. “You’re a tomboy, Kath,” he said. “You’re the closest thing he’s ever going to get to having sex with a little boy, but because you’re a girl, it makes it okay in his mind.”
Gary stopped playing a major role in his management firm and hired others to do it for him. I don’t remember now if I left the company or if they dropped me. I wouldn’t have blamed them if they did. I was a pain in the ass in those days. It’s why I call that period of my life The Dark Ages. My drinking was soon to spiral out of control. Gary and I parted ways.
It turns out, Tony and Mickey were right — there was life after high school. There was also life after Gary Goddard. I did have a successful run at an acting career, something I never thought possible without Gary.
I got sober in 1992 at the age of 28, and haven’t had a drink since. In my world they say, “You’re only as sick as your secrets.” I wish I had believed Brad when he told me that Gary had been molesting young boys. Maybe I could have done something to help stop it.
Years later, I bumped into Gary at a coffee shop up the street. He asked me how I was doing. I told him that I was having problems with my thirteen-year-old son. Immediately, he started giving me parenting advice. I had to stop him mid-sentence. My oldest son was the same age I was when I first met Gary, when I first heard of the Goddardites. I got a lump in my throat and walked away. My mind was racing with images of all the lives Gary had simultaneously touched and shattered, and how I had done nothing to stop it. Tony, Bret and Mark opened the door for change, so, I guess this is my way of walking through.
