Born with Teeth: A Memoir (22 page)

“I could meet you in New York next week. I’ll be visiting my good friend Nancy Addison. Come in for the weekend.”

Thousands of miles separated us, but I could envision him sitting in his favorite chair in the living room of his house in Cleveland, his mind turning, weighing the odds. We lived in different cities, we were both raising young children, I was thirty-nine, he was forty-eight, and we were passionate about our careers. The stakes were very high, and we both knew it.

“I’ll be there a week from Friday.”

“Four twenty-five West End Avenue, apartment twelve-A.”

“Got it. See you.” Hagan hung up.

I flipped on the light by my bedside, got out of bed, and went directly to my suitcase. Searching wildly, my hand finally found what I was looking for at the very bottom of the suitcase, impeccably packed in white tissue paper.

The perfect little black dress.

Nancy Addison’s apartment was like an oversized hothouse orchid. Everything in it was meant to look exquisite, but to me it was preposterous. No item of furniture was authentically functional, so my sleeping quarters were confined to a corner of the diminutive dining room, where Nancy had contrived to convert an air mattress into an eighteenth-century bed, replete with expensive linens, satin neck rolls, and at least six pillows of various sizes, none of which were practical. (I do not risk offending my dear friend, because she has been dead now for many years. Besides, had I given voice to this opinion then, she would merely have rolled her eyes and said, dismissively, “Oy, and the shiksa from Iowa should talk.”)

This was Friday, and the shiksa from Iowa was in a state. It was pissing rain, and although this was the designated day for our rendezvous, I had not heard a word from Hagan, and I had an audition in Times Square at two p.m. I dressed informally, in the same cotton frock I had worn when I’d first met Hagan
at the Hotel Tralee. It was a commodious gray-green shift with little to recommend it, and why I thought it appropriate for the captain of a starship I’ll never know. My mind was clearly on other things, and even when my manager spelled it out for me, I could not quite grasp what he was saying.

“The captain of a—what did you say?” I asked.

“The first female captain in the history of the
Star Trek
franchise,” my manager responded, somewhat testily. “It’s called
Star Trek: Voyager.
You would be playing the captain of a starship.”

“For what? A movie?” I asked, still oblivious to what was being laid out for me.

“Now listen, Kate. You’re an intelligent woman. This is a big deal. They are looking for an actress to play the first female captain in one of the most successful franchises television has ever known.
Star Trek
! You do know what
Star Trek
is, don’t you?”

Not wanting to provoke him further, I mumbled, “Vaguely. They travel around in space wearing strange costumes, right?”

My manager counted to ten. “They travel around in space making billions of dollars, that’s what they do! William Shatner, Patrick Stewart, and now—a woman. They want to put you on tape today at two p.m. Be prepared.”

“Oh, Alan.” I sighed, impatiently. “When am I ever
not
prepared?”

I caught a taxi on the corner of Eighty-Second Street and West End, which was a minor miracle, given the stormy conditions. Sheets of rain pelted the taxi as we staggered through Midtown traffic, finally arriving at Forty-Fourth Street and Seventh Avenue just minutes before two p.m. I had looked over the additional pages, known as sides, but hadn’t memorized them. On this day, in this state, I was incapable of memorizing a street sign.

A casting assistant greeted me when I got off the elevator and escorted me to a room at the end of the corridor. The hallway was lined with chairs, placed there for the comfort of the
many actors who would be put on tape that day. A few faces looked up as I passed, assessing the competition, and none too pleased to see an actor being taken directly into the audition room, which indicated privileged status. I was jumping the line, and this was against the unspoken rule of fair play, but I allowed myself to be led into the room, accepted with pleasure a glass of cold water, and asked for five minutes in which to collect myself. “Of course, Miss Mulgrew,” said the assistant casting director, “take your time.”

I sipped the water and looked at the pages on my lap. I could make little sense out of the dialogue, it sounded so foreign. My mind, like a broken tape, returned again and again to Hagan and why I hadn’t heard from him. My heart was racing, and not out of nervousness over the part, but because I was frantic that I had somehow confused the date on which we were to meet. Could I have missed him? In my eagerness to see him again, could I have made a mistake?

The casting assistant appeared at my side and asked, “Are you ready, Miss Mulgrew?”

I looked at her and smiled sheepishly. “As I’ll ever be,” I mumbled, and followed her into the room. I told them I’d had no time to memorize the pages and so would hold them for the audition and hoped that would be all right. A perfunctory nod from behind the camera suggested that it wasn’t actually all right, that it lacked professionalism, but, under the circumstances, it would have to do. On action, I delivered an audition so devoid of meaning, so completely inauthentic, stilted, and false, that on several occasions I had to bite my lip to keep myself from laughing. When I finished the scene, I held up my hand to let the casting director know I was not yet finished.

“I’d like to apologize to those of you watching this audition,” I said into the camera, “it is not good work by any stretch of the imagination, but you see I’ve fallen in love and I can’t
concentrate and I’m meeting him today and I’m very sorry for having wasted your time. Thank you.”

The camera clicked off, and I heard the casting director say, “Well, that was interesting.”

It took what felt like hours to get back to Nancy’s place. The day had unfolded badly, and hope was draining from me with every passing hour. I was sodden and miserable by the time I opened Nan’s front door, and I could tell immediately by the look on my friend’s face that Hagan had not called. It was devastating to have once again fallen for his charm and to once again have been proven so terribly wrong. What was it about the guy that made me so wholeheartedly believe in him? Severe disappointment brought tears to my eyes, whereupon Nancy pounced.

“Forget about it! Let’s go out! And you never know, shit happens. Life isn’t black and white—”

I stopped her right there. “You know, Nanny, life
is
in fact black and white when it comes to men. There are good men, and there are bad men.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, don’t launch into a lecture,” Nancy warned. “Get out of those wet things and take a shower. Danny had to go out of town, so we can sleep in the same bed tonight.”

This was meant to cheer me up, and it did provide comfort, of a kind. At least I knew I’d be spending the night soul searching with someone I loved.

Just as I turned to go into the bedroom, the doorbell rang. I froze. Nancy froze. My eyes widened in disbelief. Nancy looked at me, took one step to the door, and opened it. Hagan stood there, wearing a trench coat, blue jeans, and loafers.

“Sorry I’m late,” he said as I stepped forward, barefoot and disheveled, completely at a loss, and asked, “Are you late?”

Hagan laughed. “Well, I’m sure as hell not early!”

Nancy ushered him into the living room, divested him of his raincoat, and disappeared into the kitchen to get a bottle of
wine and glasses. We stood looking at each other like schoolchildren but with considerably less bravado.

“I didn’t really know what was going on, when to expect you, we didn’t exactly plan this very well, did we?” I asked breathlessly, feeling awkward, euphoric, and idiotic, all at once.

Nancy looked at me and said pointedly, “Don’t you want to change your clothes? You look like a dead rat.”

“I don’t think that’s quite the expression,” I protested.

“Maybe not, but it works, I see what she means,” Hagan said, putting an end to any further discussion about rats. I excused myself and went into the small master bedroom, closing the door behind me.

Ten minutes later, I reemerged wearing the little black dress, simple black heels, a touch of mascara, and the merest suggestion of pink gloss on my lips. My legs were bare, my long hair had been brushed, and my cheeks were flushed. A woman can count on one hand the number of times in her life when she actually felt beautiful. This was one of them. I saw it reflected in Hagan’s eyes, and I was pleased.

We sipped champagne and discussed where we should go for dinner. “I’m not tagging along!” Nancy declared, but it was a losing battle. Tim and I were adamant that she join us. She knew of a good Italian place just down the street, got up to grab a sweater, leaving the two of us alone for the first time.

“It’s good to see you,” I said to him.

“Yes,” he answered, “it’s very good. Hard, expensive, complicated, and very good.”

Nanny breezed into the room, ready to go, and Hagan and I jumped to our feet.

The lights in the Italian restaurant were low, the red wine was mellow and full-bodied, and we three sat and talked for two hours. Hagan was very interested in Nancy’s career, in her husband Danny’s work as a journalist, in her views and interests and
politics. He was articulate. He was irreverent. He was utterly charming. Hagan and Nancy laughed together as if they’d known each other for years. When Hagan excused himself to go to the bathroom, Nancy leaned over, grasped my hand, and whispered fiercely, “If you screw this up, I’ll never forgive you.”

Out on the street, Hagan attempted to flag a taxi. Nancy whispered hurriedly in an aside to me, “Go with him.”

“I’m scared,” I whispered back. And I was. As a taxi approached and Hagan moved forward to open the door, Nancy put her arms around me and said, “It’s all right. You can trust him.”

Hagan helped her into the cab and turning to me said, “How about a nightcap? I’m at the Mayflower.” I nodded in dumb acquiescence, but as Nancy’s cab pulled away from the curb I desperately wanted to call after it, to stop whatever it was that had started before it was too late.

But then, it was too late, and a taxi was whisking us off to the Mayflower, where we entered the lobby and hesitated, helpless, looking around like two newly arrived tourists.

“I would like to have a nightcap in the bar,” I said stiffly, to which Hagan immediately responded, “Great idea. This way.”

The bar was dark, illuminated by the streetlights that stood sentinel on Central Park West. We pulled out stools and waited for the bartender to take our order. I was freezing. In my eagerness to impress Tim with my good looks, I’d decided against a wrap, and now I sat in the air-conditioned bar in a thin cotton summer dress, having spent a good part of the day in a cold and unforgiving rain, and I was trembling. Tim ordered two whiskeys, and when I reached for mine, I saw that my hand was shaking. Hagan noticed it, too, and asked if I was all right.

“I’m afraid of you,” I said to him.

He laughed and said, “And I’m afraid of you, so we’re even.”

“You’re joking, but I’m not,” I told him. “Even in Ireland, I could sense that for you everything is light, amusing. Everything’s
a kind of entertainment, and then it’s forgotten. You move on to the next.”

“And you don’t?” Hagan asked and, although his eyes were merry, his tone was anything but, so I decided to tell him the truth.

“I’m not officially divorced yet, and I don’t want to tell you what I went through to get out of that marriage. It was difficult and heartbreaking—we even tried divorce therapy! I did it, but only to appease my husband, who is fantastically stubborn. And throughout, I was less than honest, which I couldn’t stand, so I can only imagine how he felt. But I didn’t care. I just wanted out, and I was prepared to do whatever was necessary to expedite the process. That’s why I took the boys to Ireland—so we could lick our wounds. If it had been just Robert and me duking it out, it would have been wrapped up in a matter of weeks, but the kids are what draw it out. You can’t bear to hurt them, and so, by trying to keep the canoe afloat, you plunge everyone into treacherous waters. It was horrible, and I’m still recovering.”

Hagan gestured to the bartender. Two more.

“So what’s your story?” I asked him, lighting a cigarette. “Your
true
story, please,” I added, emboldened by the whiskey.

Hagan hesitated. Clearly, this was not easy for him, and whereas I felt a moment’s compunction for having forced his hand, I was not about to let him off the hook. He cleared his throat, looked down at the glass in his hand.

“I’ve tried to do right,” he began, “but I’ve made mistakes, and now I’m paying for them. I loved my wife and was prepared to do anything to salvage the marriage. And, believe me,” he continued, shaking his head, “I tried damn near
everything,
but in the end I just couldn’t cope. I also knew the sooner I acted, the less my daughters would suffer. And that, I believe, is true. They’re only three and five, so as far as they’re concerned, they’re living a normal life.”

“Ah,” I responded, “you’re probably right. Had I left my husband earlier, there may not have been such turmoil. Boys aged nine and ten are so impressionable, they see and feel it all, and what’s worse, they’re too young to really understand what’s happening, and so they’re full of a kind of free-floating anxiety. They don’t know who to blame, so after they’ve finished lashing out at the parents, they punish themselves.”

My eyes filled with tears, which often happened when I considered the divorce and what it had cost my children.

“But the fact is,” I continued, “that despite their sadness, and despite my guilt, and despite Egan’s anger, I went ahead and did what I needed to do for myself. In the end, it’s selfish.”

Hagan interrupted me.

“I think you’re wrong there. It feels selfish at the time, because the pain is excruciating, but there is no nobility in hanging on to something that is miserable and false. We have to fight for our happiness in life.” My hand was next to his on the counter. It looked pale and small; his looked warm and strong.