Born with Teeth: A Memoir (24 page)

“I know,” Hagan replied, “I’m walking with one of them.”

We went through the green glen, past Pee River, into the timberland.

“Pee River?” Hagan asked.

“Tom named it that when we were very young,” I explained. “He was a dazzler with words and a born cartographer.”

Through the thicket we went, under the barbed-wire fence, and into a clearing, where rolling hills sloped to a winding creek. Real Iowa farmland. Again, I experienced a sudden, unexpected surge of pride. Hagan observed this and said, “It’s pretty here.”

“Oh, Tim, it’s not pretty, it’s beautiful,” I said and, when I put my arms around him, said again, “It’s beautiful and you
know
it’s beautiful.”

We kissed for a long time, and lovemaking seemed imminent when we suddenly heard the low but distinctive bellow of a bull.

“Jesus,” Hagan said, jumping up, “did that thing follow us from Ireland?”

“Yes, he did, and they become very aroused when they see humans making love.” I lay on the ground, arms outstretched.

“Let’s get the hell out of here!” Hagan was pulling me up, and I was laughing so hard I nearly stumbled and fell, but I shouted to him, “Run for it, Tim, here he comes! He’s full of fury, he’s aroused, and he will follow the scent of the male of the species!”

We clambered up the hill, slipping and shouting, made it under the barbed-wire fence, and were crashing through the timberland, when Hagan suddenly fell on his ass. Down he went, like a great tree. I doubled over with laughter, gasping, “No time for rest, that bull knows a thing or two about a measly barbed-wire fence.”

“Oh, knock it off, you nut job,” Hagan said, pulling me to him.

When we came through the door, red cheeked, disheveled, and covered with pine needles, no one said a word. It was a rare display of familial solidarity and indicated to me not only that Tim was well liked but that he had been accepted. Jenny and Sam were sharing a beer with Mother, who looked at the two of us and said, “That was a nice long walk.”

“Loooooong walk,” Jenny chimed in.

Then Sam, my beloved brother and keeper of the peace, came to the rescue. “We’re starving, what’s for dinner?”

As I assembled the ingredients for the pesto sauce, Jenny pulled out a chair for Hagan and asked him if he’d like a drink.

“I don’t really drink,” Hagan told her.

There was a collective gasp. And Sam followed this with “Ever?”

To which Jenny responded, “Are you on medication?”

Hagan held up his hands and said, “Well, I do occasionally like a screwdriver.”

“Atta boy!” Sam slapped him on the back, adding, “Without the orange juice, however. Orange juice is persona non grata in this house.”

Dinner was delicious, wine was served, and the conversation swelled. Hagan was a born raconteur, but, more important, he listened with his whole being, thus inviting all manner of subjects to be explored. It wasn’t long before Mother, Sam, and Hagan found their way into an argument about metaphysics. I’d seldom seen my brother so animated, or my mother so engaged.

“So, that’s why I abandoned the Church and became agnostic. Self-exile,” Hagan said.

“Self-examination, really,” Sam interjected, “which often leads us into dark places.”

“More interesting, the shadow side,” Mother offered. “More honest, somehow. Although I do think, like Spinoza, that God is Everythingness.”

Everyone mumbled in agreement, as if it went without saying that God was Everythingness, and then Jenny said, “Speaking of the shadow side—doesn’t anyone want to talk about sex?”

At this moment, my father opened the back door. “We’re talking about sex,” I called to him, “so pull up a chair!”

He studied us for a moment, shook his head, and said, to no one in particular, “Jesus. H. Christ.”

That night, I again crept into Hagan’s bedroom, but this time there was no resistance. He pulled back the sheet and took me in his arms. The moonlight filled the little room, just as it had twenty-one years ago when Tessie had wept about the injustice of her disease. “I’m the good one,” she had said. The little room, full of secrets, grew still.

The next day, we prepared to leave. Many things were said to me, many whispered asides, many bright eyes met mine, and it was clear that they all understood that I was truly in love. Even as we pulled away in the little red convertible, Mother stood in the lane, watching until we disappeared around the bend.

“I always cry when I say good-bye to Mother, isn’t that silly?” I asked, wiping my eyes.

“No,” Hagan answered. “That’s love.”

At O’Hare Airport, we returned the car to the rental agency and took a shuttle bus to the concourse. We had about an hour before his flight was scheduled to leave. Mine was an hour later. We found a nondescript airport bar and drank Coke out of paper cups. I glanced at the clock on the wall. Forty-five minutes to go. I so much wanted to talk to him, because talking to him was such a pleasure, his listening such a gift, but I found myself at a complete loss for words. I felt a low-grade nausea stealing over me. As the clock ticked, my nausea intensified, until it was impossible not to say, “I’m afraid I have to find a bathroom.”

Hagan immediately stood up and said, “Of course, of course. I’ll walk you to the ladies’ room and then be on my way.”

No, no, I wanted to shout, that’s not what I meant! We still have twenty minutes! Instead, I nodded, and we made our way out into the concourse where, of course, because Murphy’s Law is the law of sadness, there was a women’s bathroom immediately to our right.

“I love you,” Hagan said. “I’ll call you.” Then he turned abruptly and walked away, without a backward glance.

Iowa changed me. An infatuation was transformed into love. I was possessed with an energy and sense of purpose I’d never known before, and I was confident that I was among the few to have found that elusive thing called true love. I knew that in Hagan I had found my soul mate. The part of me that had searched for this, longed for this, hoped for this, could finally rest. My happiness was complete. And somehow, this happiness hardened my resolve to work as hard as I could and to raise my children well. To prepare for a new life. Back in Los Angeles, I called my manager and my agents and told them in no uncertain terms that I was on the warpath and to be prepared for bloodshed. My manager found my new attitude refreshing and told me that just that week the French Canadian actress
Genevieve Bujold, who had been hired to play the captain in the new
Star Trek
series, had quit.

“Evidently,” Alan told me, “she lasted a day and a half before she realized that eighteen-hour days, pages of technobabble, endless press, and seven years of being away from her only child was not her thing, so she called the producers to her trailer and gave them her walking papers. Now they’re in a real fix because shooting has started, but they don’t have their star, without whom the show, as they say, cannot go on. So they’re scrambling, to say the least.”

“Listen, Alan,” I replied, “I know I blew the audition on tape in New York, but I want you to get me back in that room. Just get me in the room, and leave the rest up to me. If there is any hesitation on their part, tell them to look at my track record. Long hours and difficult dialogue are what I do best. Get on it.”

The next morning, Alan called and told me an audition had been arranged for the following day. Paramount would be messengering a script, sides, and details of where and when the audition would be held within the hour.

“You’re going directly to network, which in this case means that anybody and everybody could be in the room. Rick Berman, Jeri Taylor, and Michael Piller are the executive producers. They carry the patent for Gene Roddenberry and this is their baby, but UPN will be the fledgling network working with Paramount to make this show a hit. It’s a seven-year franchise, about as solid as it gets in this industry. Only a handful of women are being called in, some of them have been seen before, and they may already have a particular interest in one of them, which is why you need to go in and knock the ball out of the park.”

I took a deep breath.

“Thank you, Alan, for what could be interpreted as a little
too much information, but I’m grateful for the warning. You just make sure the script is at my house within the hour.”

I went into the kitchen and found Lucy at her favorite station, assembling the ingredients for fajitas. The boys and some of their friends were outside in the pool, performing cannonballs and devising games that required excessive noise, near-death penalties, and an abandon known only to those who have no understanding of time.

“Luce, I need you to help me out,” I said to the woman who had heard this supplication so often that it actually evoked a chuckle.

“I know, señora,” Lucy responded. “You got to work and you need quiet. Gimme some money and I take the boys to the movies.”

I cocked my head, none too coyly. “And a pizza afterward?” I asked.

“What kinda pizza you mean—until bedtime pizza or short pizza?”

“This is important,” I said, “so I’m going to encourage you to have a really good time. I need at least four hours.”

Lucy wiped her hands on a kitchen towel, removed her apron, and said, “You got it, señora.”

“Oh, Luce, what would I do without you?”

“Ay, Dios mio, señora.”
Lucy sighed. “What I do without
you?
Anyway, you know I like the movies.”

She walked briskly out of the kitchen and, even before I could make it to the stairs leading to my bedroom, I heard her calling outside, “Okay, pies, we go to the movies! All righty then! Now, hurry up!” In Lucy’s singular approach to the English language, she had decided to do away with the “sweetie” in “sweetie pie” and had shortened that endearment to “pie,” which, as far as I could tell, everyone preferred.

The children were gone and the house was quiet when the
messenger arrived bearing the much-anticipated manila envelope. I took it upstairs to my bedroom, which was my haven. Iced coffee at hand, I curled up on my chaise for a good, long read and was almost immediately aware of unfamiliar roadblocks. Many words made no sense to me; it was a particular kind of language, highly stylized, while at the same time much of the dialogue between officers seemed informal, even casual. What was at once evident was Captain Janeway’s love of science, her unusual friendship with the Vulcan Tuvok, her need for adventure, and her mettle. In the pilot script, her name was Elizabeth Janeway, and although I knew I had my work cut out for me, I felt an instant and natural affinity with this woman. I liked her style.

The next morning, I woke early and went downstairs, script in hand. The audition was scheduled for two o’clock that afternoon, and I needed coffee. A lot of coffee. Overnight, I had developed a cold and a low-grade fever, which was very unusual for me. I was constitutionally as strong as a bull, and this sudden malaise unsettled me.

Accompanying the script were sides, and this additional copy constituted the audition material. I would need to perform two scenes; one with Tuvok and the other a monologue, explaining to my crew that we were lost in a part of the galaxy called the Delta Quadrant. Neither scene demanded a grasp of the technobabble that dominated so much of the pilot, and this went a long way toward putting me at ease. Clearly, the executives wanted to see what qualities we, as personalities, would organically bring to the role. It occurred to me that they would be in no mood to work with us on the text, as is sometimes the case. Instead, my instincts told me that it was going to be all or nothing at all in that room, that the decision would be based almost entirely on intuition. There was no time for anything else. They needed a captain, and they needed her now.

Three hours later, I pulled up to the gates of Paramount Studios and submitted my name to the guard. The guard smiled at me and said, “Good luck, Captain.” Incredible. How could he possibly have known that I was here to audition for the part of the captain on a new
Star Trek
series? Studio buzz, undoubtedly, and all the gossip that went with it.

These studios were miniature worlds unto themselves: self-contained, well-regulated, financial gold mines. The original actress’s defection must have gone through every soundstage and production office like wildfire.

An assistant greeted me when I pulled open the door to Rick Berman’s office. “Good afternoon, Miss Mulgrew, please come with me,” she said, leading the way through a maze of rooms. I passed what looked like a conference room and saw two actresses sitting there, one of whom I recognized, the other I’d never seen before.

The assistant ushered me into a private room and said, “We’re going to put you in here by yourself, you’ll be more comfortable that way. Would you like something? Coffee? A glass of water?”

I smiled in gratitude and said, “A glass of water would be terrific. Have they started yet?”

“Oh, yes,” the young woman replied. “Two actresses have already done their first scene. It won’t be long before you’re called.”

I have always had nerves of steel, but when it comes to the last step on the high dive, something else takes over. The fight-or-flight syndrome, some might call it, but in no way was I inclined to flee. In fact, as the adrenaline flooded through me, a peculiar calm came over me, intense and empowering. I was aware that I had a cold and was slightly feverish, but none of this bothered me in the least. It didn’t even occur to me to powder my nose. I was ready, and I wanted in.

There was a knock on the door, and the amiable young assistant
poked her head in and said, “They’re ready for you, Miss Mulgrew.” Those words. As many times as I’d heard them in my career, they still gave me a jolt. I braced myself for the last stop on the line, stood up and said, “And I’m ready for them.”

I walked into a large room full of unsmiling and not particularly welcoming people. Three long tables sat against the back wall, and in every seat sat a person who would weigh in for the final decision. I didn’t recognize any of the faces, which was a tremendous relief. I didn’t want to know who was judging me. I would approach this audition exactly as I would an audition in the theater. The people watching constituted the audience, that was all, and it was in my nature to embrace this dynamic, to play with the audience, just as the audience would play with me.

“Which scene would you like first?” I asked, addressing a man who was leaning forward, chin in hand, exuding indifference.

“As you wish,” he replied, and I thought, Oh dear, they’re tired, unimpressed, this process has not gone as well as they’d hoped.

“I’ll do the scene with Tuvok, then, my Vulcan friend.” I smiled and, turning to a young man sitting next to the door, asked, “Are you reading with me?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Okay, hang on to your hat,” I said to him, which elicited a few chuckles.

It is a wonderful thing to know and understand friendship. It is a gift, without question. I have been blessed with a handful of the most extraordinary friends, whose allegiance and devotion have, again and again in my life, lifted me up. Now, in this stiff room full of important people, I showed them Janeway’s capacity for friendship. I laughed with Tuvok, I teased him, and then suddenly turned and found myself utterly vulnerable in his
presence, seeking his counsel, needing his guidance. In the end, I embraced him, and put my hand to his cheek.

The scene had ended, and the man with the wry expression said, “Would you mind doing the next scene? The monologue? Or do you need more time?”

I looked him in the eye and retorted, “If there’s one thing an actress doesn’t need more of, it’s time.”

He chuckled, looked down, and said, “Then please begin when you’re ready.”

There were two ways to approach the monologue. I could give it to the reader, seat him closer to the table, or I could address the executives themselves, as if they were my crew. I chose the latter. Standing alone in the middle of the room, I looked at each of them, in turn, as I explained that we were lost in an uncharted part of the galaxy, that we would have to find a way to work together if we were to survive, that we must triumph over old rivalries and embrace new friendships, that we must face each unexpected challenge with courage and audacity and hope and that, above all, and despite seemingly insurmountable odds, I would find a way to get them home. Somehow, I promised them, someday, I would set a course… for home.

There was silence in the room. No one smiled. A few studied me with curiosity, and then the man with the first indifferent, and now bemused, expression said to me, “Thank you very much. Please wait outside.”

This time, I walked into an open room where the other candidates were seated. Collectively, they looked at me, as if searching for a lost compass. I simply shrugged my shoulders and said, “That was fun.” One of the actresses groaned, as if my idea of fun was her idea of a root canal.

After no more than five minutes, the assistant came into the
room and, smiling, said, “Well, thank you, ladies. You’ve all been dismissed. Please sign out as you leave.”

We all looked at one another with open-faced surprise, having fully expected a second round of auditions to follow the first. This was most unusual, and none of us knew what it portended.

We gathered our things, our handbags and our script bags, our garment bags and our makeup bags, and slowly made our way down the stairs and toward the parking lot. A more disparate-looking group of women you would be hard-pressed to find. I searched for the commonality, and came up empty. Certainly, no one would consider us uniformly beautiful. One woman was short and comely with long blond hair and startling blue eyes, another quite tall with a dark bob, black eyes, and an air of cockiness, and yet a third was similar to me physically, but somehow softer and more vulnerable. When we reached the parking lot, we paused briefly as if to consider how best to part—rivals or comrades? No one had yet thrown down the gauntlet, so I assumed we would part ways amicably, perhaps with an easy joke, wishing one another the best of luck and carefully concealing our nerves, which had just been put through the ringer. The dark-haired actress looked directly at me and said, “I have two kids and I really need this job. Maybe some of you don’t feel as strongly as I do, in which case…” But here she trailed off, because there was nothing further to say. We all knew, and knew that she knew, that it was utterly out of our hands. It struck me almost like a prayer, so I pressed her hand and said, “If it’s meant to be, it’s yours. Good luck, one and all.” I climbed into my jeep and headed home to my boys for a night of wrestling with postaudition angst, and perhaps, to alleviate this suffering, there would be a phone call from Tim.

The audition had fallen just a few days before the Jewish
High Holiday of Yom Kippur, but I was not as aware of this as I should have been and therefore interpreted the silence from my manager, as well as my agents, as a definitive dismissal of my audition for Captain Janeway. I did what I always did in the face of rejection—I wallowed in self-pity for about two hours, then jumped into the pool and swam sixty laps. It stung, this rejection, and it lingered, but that’s the way it was, and there was absolutely nothing I could do about it.