make him breakfast. He barked the order. Regardless, I ignored his tone and called down to the maid. She was a Mexican woman named Maria. When we had first arrived, I was unsure if I should speak Spanish to the local people. And then, without ever making a formal decision about it, I found myself speaking slow, overenunciated English to everyone. “Maria, will you please make Mr. Adler some breakfast?” I said into the phone, and then I turned to Don and said, “What would you like? Some coffee and eggs?” Our maid back in Los Angeles, Paula, made his breakfast every morning. She knew just how he liked it. I realized in that moment that I'd never paid attention. Frustrated, Don grabbed the pillow from under his head and smashed it over his face, screaming into it. “What has gotten into you?” I said. “If you're not going to be the kind of wife who is going to make me breakfast, you can at least know how I like it.” He escaped to the bathroom. I was bothered but not entirely surprised. I had quickly learned that Don was only kind when he was happy, and he was only happy when he was winning. I had met him on a winning streak, married him as he was ascending. I was quickly learning that sweet Don was not the only Don. Later, in our rented Corvette, Don backed out of the driveway and started heading the ten blocks toward set. “Are you ready for today?” I asked him. I was trying to be uplifting. Don stopped in the middle of the road. He turned to me. “I’ve been a professional actor for longer than you’ve been alive.” This was true, albeit on a technicality. He was in one of Mary’s silent movies as a baby. He didn’t act in a movie again until he was twenty-one. There were a few cars behind us now. We were holding up traffic. “Don...” I said, trying to encourage him to move forward. He wasn’t listening. The white truck behind us started pulling around, trying to get past us. “Do you know what Alan Thomas said to me yesterday?” Don said.