Born with Teeth: A Memoir (23 page)

“How do you know what will make you happy?” I asked, not looking at him.

“I don’t know. It’s a crapshoot. But I’d say I’m pretty happy right now,” he said, and my heart pitched.

Then he put his hand over mine. “We don’t have to go upstairs, if you don’t want to,” he said, “but I’m praying to Jesus that you want to.”

“I thought you were a confirmed agnostic.”

“It’s conditional,” Hagan responded.

I laughed, but my heart was in my throat. This was the ultimate crapshoot, and I knew that never before in my life had I encountered such high stakes. I looked into his eyes and said in my softest voice, “And I’m praying to Jesus that there’s a minibar in your room.”

He put the key in the lock and opened the door to his suite.
I followed, taking the heavy bag from my shoulder and throwing it on the sofa. The
Star Trek: Voyager
script I had been lugging around all day and that now resembled nothing more than a soggy pile of detritus spilled out onto the floor.

Hagan moved quickly to retrieve it and, his curiosity piqued, asked, “What’s this, then?”

“Oh, nothing,” I replied, “some science fiction series. They’re looking for a captain of a starship, but it doesn’t matter because my audition was appalling.”

He flipped through the pages of the script, pausing here and there to read bits of dialogue, which I found irritating given the circumstances, so I grabbed the script out of his hand and threw it in the wastebasket. Hagan studied me for a moment and, before pulling me into a kiss that would last all night, said, “You’re going to get that part.”

In the morning, having slept not a wink, I watched as the first light crept through the window. My back was to Hagan and, as I started to turn, I heard him say, “Don’t move.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because this is perfect happiness, and I want to remember it.”

On Sunday, we dressed for brunch. This was the third consecutive day I’d worn the little black dress, but Hagan didn’t mind. He told me he thought it was a very pretty dress. He said nothing about my face or my figure, nothing about the way I walked or the way I danced (which we did late into the night on Saturday, to golden oldies on the radio in the hotel room). He was a man of few words when it came to flattery. He wasn’t raised that way; it was false to him. That was fine with me.

We took a last walk through the park, and once, when I stumbled, he took my hand and tucked it in his arm. Past the baseball fields we walked, past Sheep Meadow, past the Tavern on the Green. Neither of us spoke. People sat on the wooden
benches that lined the sidewalk leading to Central Park West, and just as we were about to reach the street, an elderly woman sitting with her husband pointed at me and said, “I vote you the prettiest woman in the park today.” Hagan laughed and said, “You just made her day.” But I could see that he was pleased.

We picked up Hagan’s duffel bag at the hotel and crossed to the opposite side of the street, where he would have a better chance of flagging a taxi to the airport, where he would board a plane back to Cleveland. I stood there in my little black dress, unable to speak. When Hagan raised his arm, I could hardly bear it. It took every ounce of self-control and willpower I possessed to do nothing. A taxi screeched to a halt in front of us. Hagan threw his bag in the backseat of the cab, then turned to me. “Thank you for the most wonderful weekend of my life,” he said, and I believed him. He kissed me then, fast and hard, jumped in the taxi, and was soon swallowed up in the maelstrom of New York Sunday-afternoon traffic.

Three days later, the phone rang in my bedroom in Los Angeles. “Kate, this is Tim.” He announced himself on the telephone in much the way the captain of an airplane will say, “Well, ladies and gentlemen, looks like we’re in for a little chop, so I’m going to turn on the seatbelt sign.” That level tone of voice, betraying nothing, maintaining power.

“How are you?” I asked, searching for the right tone.

“Well, that’s what I’m calling about. I’m not sure how I am. I’d like to see you again.”

“That’s called missing me,” I said.

“Semantics,” he replied. A strange pause ensued, during which both of us sought a foothold, sensing that this vulnerability might be dangerous.

“I miss you, too,” I said at last, and this was the handle he was waiting for.

“I called your mother, just to see how she’s doing,” Hagan went on, “and she told me she’s having an art show in two weeks, and a reception at Derby Grange afterward. She invited me to come.” He was waiting for me to react before he would continue. It wasn’t cat and mouse, but it was close.

“You’ll never believe it, but I’m invited, too,” I said, as if it were an extraordinary coincidence. “What would you think about meeting me in Chicago and driving to Dubuque together?”

“I think that would be terrific,” Hagan replied, a lift in his voice. We were agreed. It was settled. We would see each other again, soon.

He was waiting for me as I came off the jet bridge. Leaning against a pillar, white collared shirt, blue jeans, the ubiquitous navy jacket slung over his shoulder. He was brown from the sun, his eyes were sparkling, and he was attempting a mischievous grin that immediately upon seeing me transmuted into tenderness. I went directly into his arms and would have stayed there had he not patted me on the back and said, “Now, now, that’s enough, no public displays of affection.”

“You’re a dinosaur, aren’t you?” I laughed. “Because we certainly are fond of those
private
displays of affection.”

Hagan relieved me of my overnight bag and, as we started down the concourse, said, “What kind of car should we rent?”

“Silly question, on a beautiful August night in the Midwest,” I responded. “A convertible, of course.”

Driving through the Iowa countryside, I thought I had never seen it look so beautiful. An early harvest moon illuminated the sky. We drove down winding roads, past countless cornfields, through small towns and gentle valleys, my hair whipping in the wind, Hagan behind the wheel. I looked up into the perfect star-studded sky and admonished myself to pay attention, that this was a moment to be fully present to. Don’t throw it away on what could be, I cautioned myself, just
concentrate on what is. I threw my arms in the air and shouted, “This is
my
country!” Hagan smiled at me, and put on the gas.

When we drove through the old stone gates of Derby Grange, the house was lit from within, every room aglow, and in the front yard, a bonfire blazed. Hagan was duly impressed. “What a beautiful place.”

I jumped out of the car, pulled my overnight bag from the backseat, and called, “Come on!” as I turned and headed up the brick path to the front porch. I stopped just short of the steps, staring in astonishment at my old friend Claire Labine, who was sitting on a picnic bench next to my father.

“Claire!” I cried, running forward to embrace her. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

“Neither did I,” she replied, “but I’m awfully glad I came. Don’t know how I’m getting back to New York, however, because I’m completely broke.”

With my arms around her neck, I said, “How many paintings did you buy?”

“Oh, sweetheart.” Claire laughed. “You don’t want to know.”

My father, having sat and observed this reunion in silence, now spoke.

“Hi there, sugar. Nice to see you again. I believe I’m your father.” I went to my father, kissed him soundly on the cheek, then turned to Hagan and said, “Daddy, Claire, this is Tim Hagan. I met him in Ireland and he’s been stalking me ever since.”

Claire hooted and said, “Ireland has that effect on perfectly normal people. I understand.”

My father rose from his seat, extended his hand, and said, “Hagan, how the hell are you? And what are you drinking?”

Hagan was smiling broadly, when suddenly the front door opened and my mother ran out, shouting, “Kitten Kat Feathers
of Joy! You’re here! And with Tim!” She went up to Hagan and gave him a kiss.

I started inside, stopping to whisper into my mother’s ear, “Wait until I tell you,” to which my mother responded, “Oh, dear.”

Inside, bodies came at me furiously. With each recognition, there was a scream of joy. My sister Jenny flew into my arms; my brother Sam, deep in conversation with a tipsy priest, saw me and shouted, “Hooray!” I was pulled from room to room, until I came across my dangerously handsome brother Joe in the kitchen, surrounded by a gaggle of pretty girls.

“Nothing changes,” I said, announcing my presence, whereupon Joe came forward and, giving me a big hug, declared for all to hear, “I have to maintain some order, you know, or they’d be on me like mosquitoes.” Laughter carried me into the living room, where I encountered old friends and, with Jenny at my side, out to the front porch, where I introduced her to Hagan and said, “He’s my ride.”

Jenny looked from me to Hagan and back again before lifting her glass and remarking drily, “I’ll bet he is.”

We made our way down to the bonfire, where at least ten of my fourteen nieces and nephews were gathered. A lot of the kids were singing and dancing, my nephew Rory’s face shone in the firelight, and we smiled tenderly at each other. He was fourteen years old, Joe’s oldest son, and ever since he was born, I’d had a special fondness for him and saw to it that he accompanied me and my boys on as many adventures as possible. I went over and kissed him, then nudged him and gestured toward Hagan. “Go meet Tim Hagan,” I said.

“Who he is, Aunt Kate?”

“He’s a special friend, darling, now go shake his hand.” An hour later, the singing was more subdued, and the fire had
taken ahold of us, as it always did, mesmerizing us into silence. I scanned the familiar circle of faces until my eye fell on Hagan and Rory, exactly where I’d left them an hour ago, standing side by side, completely at peace, gazing into the fire.

In the wee hours of the morning, when the house was finally still, I stole out of bed and made my way to the maid’s room, where Hagan had been temporarily ensconced. The door creaked when I opened it, and Hagan whispered, “Shhh, they’ll hear us.” I could barely suppress laughter, knowing, as I did, that not only this room but many other rooms in this house, and very likely at this very moment, were experiencing the creaking of doors and of mattresses, too.

I climbed in beside him and asked, “Well, what do you think?”

Hagan put his hands behind his head and said, “Terrific. Wacky, eccentric, and probably dangerous, but terrific.”

“This is how I grew up. Now you know.” I know I sounded proud, and a little defiant.

“There’s a lot of drinking, which I’m not accustomed to,” Hagan observed, “but there’s a lot of joy, too, and great creative energy. As for your father and your siblings, it’s parry and thrust all the way, but they’re good-hearted and full of laughter. Your mother almost seems out of place.”

“If she didn’t paint and play the piano and dance on the lawn, if she weren’t completely eccentric, I might agree with you. And she is wildly eccentric. Do you know she set me up with a friend of hers in Ireland? Old enough to be my—” But Hagan stopped my mouth, and we spent the next few hours creaking our way to bliss.

As dawn broke, and we were weary, spent, and perfectly happy, Hagan, nearly asleep, murmured, “Who will do the cleaning up downstairs? It’s a disaster area.”

“Oh, generally we just leave it. Mother gets up early and makes a halfhearted pass at it,” I said.

“Well, not this morning, she doesn’t,” Hagan declared, suddenly up on an elbow. “Now get your ass out of bed and I’ll meet you in the kitchen in five minutes.”

The kitchen at Derby Grange hardly knew what to make of itself by the time we were finished. We scoured the walls, the floor, the counters, the windows. Every glass and every dish was recovered from the front yard, the living room, the dining room, the porch, and washed and dried until they sparkled. Beer cans were collected and put in crates, old food was thrown out and carefully tied in garbage bags, a pot of coffee was brewed, and a bowl of fruit was assembled prettily in a bowl and placed in the center of the kitchen table. It was a complete transformation.

Finally, we sat at the table, coffee in hand, and I turned to Hagan. “Just wait,” I said, “the acid test.”

I heard Jenny first, from the bottom of the front stairs. “Who cleaned up the house? My God, it doesn’t look like itself!”

“You mean, without the feral cats foraging for that one cube of fossilized cheese,” Sam said.

“Oh, shit, don’t tell me the
cheese
is gone!” Jenny screeched. The two of them sauntered into the kitchen, slightly bleary eyed. My sister stood stock-still, astonished. “Oh my God, did you two do this?” she cried.

“Saints. Veritable saints,” Sam declared. “Now get the hell out of my way so I can have a cup a coffee.” Everyone laughed. Mother came through the dining room, humming, and entered the kitchen as if it always looked like this after she’d thrown a party for two hundred people. In fact, she went immediately to the sink and began to wash the single coffee cup that sat in the basin, which sent us all howling.

“Very nice,” Mother hummed, “very, very nice.”

Next, my father walked slowly into the kitchen. He was showered and hungover, and it was anybody’s guess which way
the wind would blow. The room fell silent as he made his way across the floor, opened the cupboard to retrieve his favorite cup, then slowly proceeded to the coffeepot, where he felt it necessary to rest for a moment before lifting the pot and pouring the coffee into his cup. This he did, laboriously, but successfully. Then he turned to the group of us gathered around the kitchen table, took a sip, looked at Hagan, and said, “Still here?”

As the day unfolded, everyone slowly dispersed. Mother disappeared into her studio, and I asked if she were going to paint. “Are you nuts?” she called as she pulled the door closed. “I’m counting my loot.” It was understood that everyone would reconvene for dinner, and it went without saying that I, who loved to cook for my siblings, would prepare the meal. In the meantime, the day was ours. Oh, the whole day was ours, to do with as we wished.

“Come on,” I said to Hagan, “let’s take a walk.” Hagan looked at me skeptically, as if walking through the woods and valleys might be less than idyllic, but I assured him he would see unimaginable beauty. “And every manner of wild creature,” I whispered.