Born with Teeth: A Memoir (9 page)

Three days after the baby was born, I returned to work. I entered the studio and was greeted by the floor manager, Briggsie, who lacked his usual exuberance. Neither Claire nor any of the other producers was present. Lela Swift, the director, embraced me and asked, “Are you okay?”

“Yes,” I replied, “I’m fine.”

“Well,” Lela went on, “this is the scene where Mary comes home from the hospital with her—baby. While she waits for the family to arrive, she has some time alone with her child. You got the script, right? It’s a bit of a monologue.”

I nodded, and said, “Let’s get going. Roll tape on the first take.”

I took my place behind the living room set door. Suddenly, the studio nurse approached me, carrying an infant in her
arms. When she attempted to give me the baby, I held up my hand and said, “Wait until the red light goes off.” At my cue, I signaled the nurse to give me the stunt baby, took her in my arms, and entered the living room of the Ryan family home. Standing in the middle of the room, I delivered the monologue to the baby, as directed. A monologue about love, a monologue about courage, a monologue about, above all else, loyalty, ending with the words: “I will never leave you, Ryan. We will never be separated. That is my solemn promise.”

The first take was flawless, not a word out of place. I looked up at the control room, where often, if the scene was particularly difficult, the producers would flip on the lights and stand up, clapping, in a collective show of appreciation. But today, after this scene, there was nothing.

No one spoke. The control room remained detached and silent.

I turned to Lela and asked, “Acceptable?”

She nodded.

I beckoned to the studio nurse and, handing the stunt baby to her, said, “Take it.”

Claire had written me only one scene on my first day back. Not even a scene, really. A monologue. A beautifully crafted monologue that would, everyone knew, go a long way toward improving our sagging ratings.

My work done, I gathered myself and walked toward the open door.

The elevator door opened, and there he was. I’d seen him so many times, this curious blue-eyed, sandy-haired creature with whom I shared a common elevator, and not once had we exchanged words.

Today, however, was different. Though not tall, he gave the impression of size and was always impeccably dressed, from his elegant three-piece suit to his tailored pink linen shirt (replete with monogrammed cuffs) to his custom-made English shoes. He turned his head, gave me the once-over, and, smiling, said, “So, looks like you survived.”

Ah, yes, the baby. Of course. He had ridden the elevator with me countless times throughout the past year, had been what one might call a silent witness to my ordeal, and here he
was, acknowledging it openly, almost cavalierly. “In a matter of speaking,” I said.

Strange man. He had a face that radiated intelligence, and although he was standing still opposite me, he possessed a kinetic energy so palpable I almost wanted to ask him to slow down. The door opened, ushering us into the lobby, when he turned and said, “Today’s my birthday and I have no plans. Wide open. Why don’t we step across the street to the Tavern on the Green and have a glass of champagne? You game for that?”

It was the middle of the afternoon in the middle of the week in New York City, the sun was shining, and he seemed kind, so I said, “Why not? You can tell me the story of your life.”

So much sympathy was evident beneath those gaudy, glittering chandeliers that much that should have been withheld was not. He listened with infinite patience, and not once in the unfolding of that long, luxurious afternoon did I feel the sting of criticism.

His name was Richard Cushing, he was a defense attorney, and there was nothing about which he was not passionate.

Immediately, I sensed a wildness in him, but what I could not have foreseen was his capacity for tenderness. He was a tough New York lawyer, born and bred on Long Island, fully aware of his flaws, but oh, how he loved to win. An obsessive love of the game was at the core of his nature, and while he approached the courtroom like a predator, as a friend he turned out to be generous and fiercely loyal.

Balm in Gilead, he was. Undemanding, and without judgment. Still reeling from the baby, and having just left
Ryan’s Hope
after two years of unremitting upheaval, I sought refuge in Cushing’s constancy.

That he wanted and expected more from me was, I suppose, inevitable, and yet I was not prepared when, one night at dinner,
I found a diamond ring at the bottom of my glass of champagne. With the guilelessness of a child, I slipped it on my finger and said, “Oh, Richard, I don’t know what to say,” to which he replied, “No pressure, just wear it for a while, see if you like it.” This was the beginning of a game I justified as whimsy, and would come to play adroitly.

My tenure on
Ryan’s Hope,
however brief, was sufficient to confirm my suspicion that television, while lucrative and enjoyable, was not enough to satisfy me creatively. I missed the theater, and so, in the winter of 1978, I accepted the role of Desdemona opposite Ron O’Neal in a Hartman Theatre production of
Othello,
in Stamford, Connecticut. Mr. O’Neal, famous for having created the iconic role of Youngblood Priest in the movie
Super Fly,
insisted on playing the role of Othello in blackface, a perplexing choice that no one had the guts to argue but that proved a nightmare for the wardrobe department. To add insult to injury, on opening night, after Othello had rather violently “put out the light,” I rolled center stage and, covered with sooty fingerprints, lost my wig to the front row. Convulsed with laughter, this Desdemona simply would not go gentle into that good night and faced her curtain call bald, besmudged, and beside herself.

One afternoon, I got a call from Stark Hesseltine, who told me that Fred Silverman, the head of programming for NBC, was in town and wanted to have lunch with me. When I demurred, Stark said, “One meets with the premier executive of a major network out of courtesy, if nothing else, so put on your prettiest bonnet and be at Thirty Rockefeller Plaza tomorrow at noon.”

I wore an Italian cream-colored pleated skirt, black stockings, and a black turtleneck sweater, and slipped on a pair of Ferragamo heels. I tied a black satin ribbon in my hair. The elevator
let me out on the penthouse floor, where I was greeted by a plump middle-aged woman wearing a bright smile and a string of pearls, who led me down a short hallway and, after pulling open two heavy mahogany doors, ushered me into the executive dining room.

The table of twelve men rose as one. Immediately stepping forward, Fred Silverman extended his hand and introduced himself. He was full faced and brown eyed, and I thought him polite, straightforward, and avuncular. His eleven henchmen introduced themselves by turn. Nothing about this group promised a luncheon full of laughter and bonhomie, but I was famished and figured I might as well enjoy my meal. Silverman remarked on my unconventionally hearty appetite, to which I responded, “I must introduce you to my father. Those are his sentiments exactly.”

This was met with guffaws of appreciation (clearly most of these gentlemen were married to Hollywood wives who ate, on average, exactly nothing), after which the mood became noticeably more somber. Then Silverman cut to the chase. After carefully folding his napkin and placing it on the table, he leaned forward and said, “You know, we were all very impressed with your performance on
Ryan’s Hope,
thought you were terrific as Mary Ryan. So terrific, in fact, that we were thinking about developing a nighttime series for you, a spin-off of the
Columbo
series, but this time our protagonist will be Mrs. Columbo.”

“Peter Falk?” I interrupted. “But he’s old enough to be my father! Or maybe, if he was really precocious, my grandfather.”

Laughter, dampened by what I’m sure they all considered my cheek. Chuckling, Silverman persevered, “No, no, nothing like that. His wife, perhaps, but the beauty of it is that they’ll never be together on screen. He does his thing; she does hers. Mrs. Columbo will be a journalist by day and a sleuth by night. They may talk occasionally on the phone, but this is strictly her story.
She solves murders using her wit, her style, and her courage. We at NBC/Universal television think you have the talent and the charisma to pull this off—how does the idea grab you?” He stopped just short of winking at me, but in his eye there was the unmistakable glint of victory.

I looked around the table, at all those terribly important faces turned toward mine, and I was suddenly filled with an urgent need to get out of there. “Mr. Silverman, gentlemen,” I said, rising, “it’s very kind of you to have thought of me, and I’m very flattered, but you see, I just finished two years on television and now I want to get back to the theater. In fact, I’m dying to get back to the theater. It’s what I came to New York to do, I’ve missed it, I’ve longed for it, and so really as much as I’d like to, I can’t, but thank you all very much. It was a pleasure dining in the clouds with you, and now, if you’ll excuse me.” I reached for my raincoat, and after quickly shaking Fred Silverman’s hand, I was out the door before the remaining eleven could even push back their chairs.

I jumped into a taxi and flew to 80 Central Park West, threw open the door to my apartment, tossed my bag on the table, and fell into a chair. Relief. Happiness. Triumph. All real, all true. Then I felt the merest zephyr of regret, followed by the need for a good part in a good play, which, in an ideal world, would start rehearsals tomorrow, open in a month, and run for a long, long time. Such are the cascading thoughts of the actress who has just turned down a big job when she has no bird in the hand. This pattern, common enough by now, motivated me to pick up the phone and call my agent, who, himself deeply familiar with this cycle, beat me to the punch. The phone rang just as I reached for it.

“Hello?” I answered.

“Kate, Stark here. Now listen: Leonard is waiting for you in his office. At three o’clock, he’ll have Fred Silverman conferenced
in. We all understand what happened at lunch, and while we respect your decision, it is never smart to walk away from the table before you’ve considered the deal. Courtesy, that’s all. Fred Silverman is a powerful man, the day may come when we’ll need him, so let’s play nice and listen to what he has to offer. At the end of the conversation, if you still feel the same way, we’ll accept your decision. Now get going.” And with that, he hung up.

A tiny surge of excitement, followed by a stab of terror. I raked a comb through my hair, brushed my teeth, and was on my way.

Leonard Franklin’s office was dimly lit, richly decorated, and intimidating. In the center of the room sat a round, glass-topped coffee table bearing two crystal tumblers, a crystal pitcher of ice water, and a very large black telephone attached to a triangular device studded with a variety of colorful buttons.

Leonard greeted me warmly. “Now, Katie, sit down. I have Stark on the line, and Mr. Silverman will be conferenced in at three. He’ll be on speakerphone, so this will be an open conversation. We just want you to hear him out. Can you do that? Without interrupting? Can you just listen to what the man has to say?”

I accepted the tall glass of cool water and took a seat. “Of course, Leonard. As long as you all know where I stand.” Leonard nodded, but he appeared preoccupied. At exactly three o’clock the phone rang. Leonard pushed a button and greeted Fred Silverman as if they’d served together in the Normandy Invasion. They used a vernacular that was foreign to me but evidently very familiar to them, seasoned with obscure expressions and delivered in a dialect I found surprising and strange coming, as it did, out of my lawyer’s customarily patrician mouth.

I watched as Leonard paced, and slowly came to understand
that Fred Silverman was not so much talking to me as he was to my lawyer and my agent, both of whom—if silence is any indication of interest—appeared mesmerized by what he was saying. Various words emanated from the disembodied voice of the NBC guru, they glowed for an instant and then were swallowed up in the grand unspooling of promises so extravagant as to seem absurd to the mind of a twenty-three-year-old actress who had one soap opera, a movie, and a couple of plays under her belt. The men who managed my professional life, however, did not find it in the least absurd. They were galvanized, riveted, in their element. Stella Adler, green eyes flashing, popped into my consciousness and shouted,
In the banker’s way! Only the work will lift you up! I worry that you’ll skate into Hollywood.
But by that time, the conversation had come to an end; Fred Silverman was signing off with an admonition to think long and hard, with the implicit warning that such a conversation would not be had twice.

That night onstage, I played Desdemona as I’d never played her before, but at the curtain call I was so solemn that Ron O’Neal leaned in to me and whispered, “What happened to you? Did someone die?”

I looked at him, took his hand, and, curtsying deeply, said nothing.

Fred Silverman had made me an offer I couldn’t refuse.

Before I left for Hollywood, there were things to do. I wanted to look Susan Smith in the eye and ask her for mercy, a sliver of mercy, nothing too untoward. I wanted to ask her if my baby was all right. I wanted to ask her how my baby had been received by her adoptive parents—in particular, I wanted to know what the mother had said when my baby had been put in her arms and how she had looked. Last, I wanted a photograph
of my baby. Surely, requests as modest as these would be granted.

Susan Smith was fundamentally kind, so it must have required a significant effort for her to greet me so coolly. Her lovely warmth had been replaced by a steely stoicism. She did not ask me to sit but instead launched into the litany of reasons preventing her from providing me with any information about my baby, let alone a photograph.

“But what possible harm could a photograph do?” I pleaded, struggling to maintain my composure.

She shook her head. “I’ve told you and told you, Kate, it’s not the policy we subscribe to here at Catholic Charities, and you know that. You need to learn to accept it.”

I felt I had accepted enough. “This is wrong, Susan, and you know it. It’s cruel. I’ll go to the archbishop, if I have to, because this is untenable.”

There was a moment’s brittle silence in the room, and then Susan Smith said, “You do that. You go to the archbishop. Maybe then you’ll understand why there are rules that, once made, cannot be broken.”

On my way out, I stopped at the administrative and clerical offices on the ground floor and requested an appointment with the archbishop. The clerk told me that the archbishop was, naturally, indisposed, but perhaps I might chat with the executive director of the Catholic Home Bureau maternity services, Sister Una McCormack. I was led into a room and introduced to a tall, formidable-looking woman with short-cropped gray hair, wearing a simple black dress with a white collar, the requisite silver cross hanging from her neck. Her eyes were piercing, the color of slate. When she inquired as to the point of the meeting, I told her that I had given up a baby and I wanted to discuss the adoption policy with the archbishop.