Born with Teeth: A Memoir (14 page)

A good theater is like a petri dish, cultivating all sorts of surprises within the confines of a very limited space, and it is of paramount importance that this process be disturbed as little as possible by the vicissitudes of the world at large. That is why you will seldom hear an actor expounding on the vagaries of his personal life unless, of course, that personal life has been cultivated in the aforementioned petri dish. When rehearsals begin, there seems to be an unspoken agreement among all involved that anything not directly related to the play is unimportant. However, it is crucial to remember that in the theater everything that might enhance the play is permissible.

This was my thinking as I approached the rehearsal studio where the first read-through of
Another Part of the Forest
was to take place. I had just spent a half hour in the theater itself,
familiarizing myself with its contours, feeling its bones. The Seattle Repertory Theatre gave the impression of intimacy but boasted a capacity of eight hundred seats.

The stage was wide and deep, the space was dark and muted, and I was home.

I have always been early for rehearsal, but I’m particularly vigilant when it comes to the first read-through and like to get in the room and comfortably situated well before the reading is actually scheduled to begin. The rehearsal room I entered that October morning was typical of its kind: a large, well-lit room, devoid of furniture, with one mirrored wall facing another wall covered by a floor-to-ceiling crimson velvet drape. In the center of the room, a long table had been devised by pushing three or four smaller tables together, and around this table about twenty chairs had been placed, with large binders and glasses of water marking the seats reserved for the directorial staff.

The assistant director approached me and asked if I would like a cup of coffee. When I nodded, she pointed to the snack table across the room and told me we’d get started in about five minutes. Assistants in the theater, unlike production assistants in the movies, will never fetch an actor a cup of coffee, because, first, it is beneath them and, second, they simply don’t have the time.

When I arrived at the snack table and attempted to pour myself a cup of coffee, a very tall person standing next to me bent down and whispered, “Don’t drink that, it’s shit. Unless, of course, you prefer your coffee to taste like shit, which, believe me, I can appreciate under certain circumstances.”

I was about to respond when another tall, angular figure approached and, shaking his head, said, “I don’t know if putting you two in the same production is a good idea. Maybe we should rethink this.”

The first tall man drew himself up to his full, imposing height and wagged his finger in the other’s face. “What you should rethink is your shitty coffee. How do you expect to get good actors to come here if you serve them this crap?”

Dan Sullivan, the artistic director of the Seattle Repertory Theatre, laughed and said, “Kate Mulgrew, allow me to introduce your brother, Oscar, otherwise known as John Procaccino. Oscar, be nice to Regina, or she might—”

“What?” Procaccino interrupted. “Threaten me with drinkable coffee?”

Clearly, this was a relationship of long standing, and it was immediately apparent to me that the people who worked at this theater loved it. I sensed none of the hierarchical tensions that were so pervasive on a film set.

Dan Sullivan excused himself, whereupon John Procaccino pulled his chair up next to mine and began a running commentary on everyone seated around the table. “That’s Keith Carradine across from you, he just finished an Altman film, they say he’s great in it, he’s playing Ben, of course, and then there’s the lovely Kim Hunter who might look like a deer caught in the headlights this morning but just wait until she gets in front of an audience, an absolutely brilliant actress, and that’s John Kellogg down there, he’s playing our father and I hear he’s a real nut job, watch out for him he could be trouble, standing up at the other end is Mark Jenkins, he plays your lover boy, nice guy, local, but a good actor, and then seated right next to you is the delicious Miss Birdie played by the very lovely Donna Snow. Donna, meet Kate Mulgrew, your nemesis. Now, I need a five-minute break.”

Dan Sullivan was clearing his throat at the far end of the table and calling the reading to order. His was a long, craggy Irish face with dancing eyes and the perpetual suggestion of a smile so that, regardless of what was being said, you were convinced
that Dan found it amusing. He welcomed everyone to the theater, introduced the director, Ed Hastings, and then added, drily, “We should probably get started. My esteemed associate Bob Egan is apparently otherwise engaged and will join us when he can. So, without further ado, let’s begin at the top.
Another Part of the Forest.
Act one. Scene one.”

Heads bowed over binders, the Hubbard clan began to bond. Even at the table, my rapport with John Procaccino was natural, playful, as if we’d known each other for years, whereas the restraint I instinctively felt playing opposite John Kellogg planted the seed that would soon take root, both onstage and off. Kim Hunter, too, lowered her voice to a near whisper when she had a scene with Kellogg, and although it was a perfect choice for the dynamic between husband and wife, it was strangely premature that first day, when all that was expected of the actors was a clear and honest reading of the text.

Suddenly, my attention was diverted by the studio door opening, and I watched out of the corner of my eye as a man approached the table and quietly slipped into the chair beside Dan Sullivan. An inner alarm sounded. Don’t be absurd, I counseled myself, steady on. With actors surrounding me on all sides, my privacy was protected, and I could steal looks without danger of suspicion. So I stole, and stole again. He was, I assumed, the associate to whom Dan had referred earlier, someone too busy to be on time for the first reading of a main-stage play. Too busy doing what, I wondered, and with whom, and why. All of these questions leapfrogged through my mind as I surreptitiously studied him. What struck me first was his beauty, so evident as to be almost redundant Black Irish looks of the most dangerous, and therefore the most appealing, kind. My kind of looks, the kind I had been raised to appreciate, the kind that would last. The face was clear, the eyes a deep blue, the mouth full, the nose prominent, the hair, thick and black,
brushing his shoulders. A thirty-something Prince Valiant, wearing a black cotton smock with deep pockets in the front. As he concentrated, he toyed with his pencil, drumming it lightly against his lips.

At the first break, I turned to the actress beside me, the lovely Donna Snow, and whispered, “Do you know anything about that guy?” I nodded in the direction of Prince Valiant.

“Not a thing, but he sure is cute, Miss Regina,” she replied, affecting a Southern accent.

Slipping into character, I leaned in and said, “Now, Miss Birdie, you need to find out about that man, a few of the more important details, if you understand me.”

Miss Birdie understood completely and rose to get herself a cup of tea at the snack table, where Prince Valiant was conveniently helping himself to a bowl of mixed fruit.

At the start of act 2, Miss Birdie, hiding behind her binder, said out of the corner of her mouth, “He’s the associate artistic director, he’s not married, but he’s got a girlfriend. It’s serious.”

I reflexively lifted my binder to cover my face and, without thinking, responded, “And I have a fiancé. That’s serious, too.” It wasn’t even lunchtime and already I had broken the unspoken rule of the theater and brought what belonged outside inside.

After the read-through, as I was gathering my things and wondering how I was going to create the opportunity to talk to Prince Valiant, the company manager appeared at my side and asked if I would like to pick up some groceries on my way to the apartment the theater had provided for me.

“Where’s the closest market?” I asked.

She abruptly turned away from me and called across the room, “Hey, Bob, you live around here—where is there a good market? Kate needs to stock her kitchen.”

Bob Egan acknowledged us but took his sweet time crossing
the room, stopping to greet John Procaccino and having a word with Dan Sullivan, so that when he finally extended his hand to introduce himself, I had made up my mind that he was arrogant and self-absorbed.

Our shopping expedition was brief and unremarkable. Robert Egan comported himself like a gentleman, despite a certain aloofness. There was a wariness in his manner that I didn’t like, a guardedness that suggested to me a distaste for actresses. Maybe he’d had one or two unfortunate experiences with my kind, but if that was the case, I concluded, he shouldn’t be in the theater, where actresses tend to proliferate.

The next day, rehearsals began in earnest, and it was soon evident that
Another Part of the Forest
was going to evolve into a beautifully realized production. The company camaraderie was so organic, so easy and uncontrived, and John Procaccino was so completely accessible as a partner and a friend, that one day I suggested to him that he should have a dinner party and invite a few members of the company, as well as Robert Egan. He looked at me, a slow smile starting, but I beat him to the punch. “And
no
significant others,” I emphasized. “It wouldn’t be fair to those of us who have come so far, and with only ourselves to show for it.”

Invitations were extended for the following Sunday night, which was the company night off, leaving all of Monday free for recovery. I arrived with the wardrobe mistress, a tough but tenderhearted creature who adored the theater.

Procaccino answered the door and pulled us inside. In the kitchen, a young woman with lively brown eyes stood over a busy stove. Seeing us, she shouted, “Well, Jesus, John, take their coats already and give ’em a drink! Hi, I’m Joanne, and yup, I’m John’s wife,” and threw up her hands as if to say she had fought the good fight and lost. I laughed, handed my coat to John, and peered into the next room, which was already
crowded with people from the theater. Keith Carradine, beer in hand, had his guitar strapped across his chest, and next to him stood a beautiful blond, whom I took to be his significant other. Oh, dear, I thought. Donna Snow, blushing scarlet, was enjoying a joke with the assistant director, and it was then that the door opened behind me and I heard Procaccino call out, “Egan! You honor us with your presence. Now help yourself to a fucking drink and join the party!” In the ensuing charade, while pretending that we didn’t see each other, I realized, with relief, that he had come alone.

That night was the first of many nights at the Procaccino home, full of laughter and stolen bits of flirtatious chat with Robert Egan, but this one I would remember in particular for the tears it brought to my eyes when Keith Carradine, after dinner, sat cross-legged in the middle of the living room floor and sang “I’m Easy,” a song he had composed and performed in Robert Altman’s film
Nashville.
The hour was late and we’d had a lot to drink, but that song by candlelight cast a spell over all of us. When he finished, we burst into applause and demanded encore after encore until finally, at three o’clock in the morning, Procaccino staggered to his feet and bellowed, “Okay, everybody out! And Egan, make sure Mulgrew gets home all right, will ya?”

Egan took me home on the back of his motorcycle, slowly bumping our way down Queen Anne Hill. Inebriated, he was careful and deliberate, the very opposite of Roberto Meucci. He was, as usual, quiet and restrained, so that when we pulled into the parking lot I was surprised to find myself suggesting lunch the next day, and doubly so when he accepted, albeit grudgingly.

“Well, we don’t have to, if it’s a hardship for you.” I laughed, slipping off the bike and adjusting my skirt. He didn’t seem to
find this amusing, didn’t even crack a smile, but told me he would pick me up at noon tomorrow.

“Noon?”
I cried. “What about my beauty sleep? It’s crucial, you know, for ticket sales.”

Again he was not amused and, revving the accelerator on his handlebar, said, “See you tomorrow.”

Inside, the phone rang. The only person who could possibly be calling me at three thirty in the morning had to be living in another time zone. My relationship to the telephone has always been prickly, at best. When it doesn’t involve work or is not an emergency, the phone fills me with a peculiar anxiety, and my tone can often be interpreted as almost hostile. Roberto, thousands of miles away, was equally abrupt, and words that were meant to be sweet and conciliatory ended up sounding harsh.

“Where have you been,
amore?
” Roberto demanded. “It’s very late where you are and I have tried calling two or three times.”

I explained that I’d been to a party, but he wouldn’t let it go. He pressed until finally I said, “It was a great party, and then the associate artistic director drove me home on his motorcycle in the pouring rain.”

Predictably, this ended the inquisition but was the start of something else. So far away, I felt a courage I didn’t feel in Roberto’s presence. Not to mention a freedom. He hung up, stung, and I went to bed, thinking of what I would wear for tomorrow’s lunch with the enigmatic Mr. Egan.