Born with Teeth: A Memoir (21 page)

At the airport, Hagan gave Alec a handful of coins to play the game machines, which provided us with about ten minutes of uninterrupted privacy. But it was impossible to touch, impossible to speak, impossible to think clearly.

“If you change your mind and come to Dublin, I’ll be there for a week,” Hagan said, leaning forward. “I’ll hold a couple of rooms for you at the Westbury, just in case.”

Alec had almost finished his game of Pac-Man; I could sense that our time was almost up. “Do you remember what you said to me yesterday on the sea walk?” I asked. We had walked the ring around the bay, just the two of us, in a light rain, and just as we’d approached the remnants of an ancient castle that sat atop a hill overlooking Dingle, Hagan had turned me to him and said, “I’d love to see what you look like when you’re eighty.”

Now, however, he only nodded, and his smile was wistful. At that moment, boarding for his flight was announced, and we both jumped to our feet, eager to put an end to the terrible tension. I walked him out to the tarmac, the propellers started up with a roar, he leaned forward, and, avoiding my lips for Alec’s sake, he kissed me gently on the cheek and whispered into my ear, “I think I’m in love with you.” He was wearing aviator sunglasses, his Irish mac slung over his shoulder.

The door to the plane closed, and Alec pulled on my hand. “Come on, Mom, let’s go!” he shouted.

Once in the car, my son chattered nonstop all the way back to Dingle, for which I was grateful.

I waited five days, and then made a decision. We were going to Dublin.

It was late when we pulled into the quiet village of Adare. We were irritable and hungry. Mercifully, the large, family-style hotel had a room available with two double beds, onto which the boys immediately threw themselves, complaining of the cold, complaining of the damp, complaining of primitive Irish customs. No room service, no bar after eleven, no vending machines bursting with crap. I pulled a few tired ham sandwiches and a couple of apples from my bag.

“This is the best I can do,” I said tightly. “Now, eat your sandwich, take a shower, and go to sleep. We’re on the road at the crack of dawn.”

They groaned in unison, a response I was accustomed to, having spoiled them well from the moment they were born. But this time I snapped. “Okay, that’s it, lights out! I’ve had it, guys. You’ve pushed me to the limit.” This silenced them sufficiently to get them under covers, clutching soggy sandwiches
and pouting fiercely in the darkness. Very soon, however, their frustration gave way to sleep, and within minutes the room was as quiet as a chapel.

I sat on the windowsill, cranked open the window, and lit a cigarette. My head was pounding, my throat was raw, I was filled with anxiety. I swung my legs over the windowsill and dropped to the ground below, careful not to wake the children. Why hadn’t Hagan called, as he said he would? What was he thinking? Could it possibly have been a ruse? Was I so dense as to have mistaken a mere diversion for the real thing?

In the lobby, I stared at the pay phone and pondered my dilemma. I had never willingly called a man before in my life. Only emergencies or a change of plans necessitated a phone call to a man. “If you ever call a man on the telephone,” my mother had told me when I was ten, “you will get cancer of the hand.” I looked at the piece of paper in my as-yet-nonmalignant hand, looked at the phone, dropped in the coins, and dialed.

A woman answered. “Ambassador Smith’s residence, who’s calling, please?”

I was ready. “This is Kate Mulgrew, I’m calling for Mr. Hagan, actually, he’s a guest of Mrs. Smith’s.”

Tidy, the voice on the other end was, and officious. “Mr. Hagan is out for the evening. Would you care to leave a message?”

“I would,” I replied, falling into the rhythm of her stiffness. “Would you kindly tell Mr. Hagan that Kate Mulgrew will be at the Westbury Hotel tomorrow night?”

“I will, indeed.”

“Thank you.”

“Not at all, madam. Good night.”

I hung up and thought that approaching my own execution could not have been more agonizing.

The next day, Hagan didn’t come. Not by cocktail hour, not by dinnertime, not by bedtime. Nor did he call. I ordered room service for the boys, bathed them, and got them into bed. The bathroom looked like a war zone. I didn’t care. I waited until they were fast asleep, then opened the door to the adjoining room and curled up on the vast, beautifully made bed, wide awake. No man was worth this much effort, I said to myself. I have children to look after, I have things to do, I’m an actress, a woman of substance. Enough! I’ll take a bath, open a split of wine, and shake off the humiliation.

I sank into the hot tub, luxuriating in the comfort and stillness of this overpriced and magnificent hotel bathroom. At that moment, the phone on the wall next to the toilet rang. My eyes sprang open and my heart stopped as I lunged for the phone.

“Hello?” I was low voiced, sleepy sounding, ever so slightly dismissive.

“Kate, this is Tim.”

“Well, well, what a remarkable surprise. Don’t tell me: you’re in the lobby and want to take me out on the town,” I said, splashing about so as to make it clear that I was bathing and indisposed.

“As a matter of fact,” Hagan replied, “I
am
in the lobby, and I know it’s late, but I would like to see you, if I could.”

I took a deep breath, tried to quell the rising anger.

“Tim, it’s almost midnight. My children are asleep in the next room. Are you insane?”

“That’s a possibility,” he responded, “but I would still like to see you. We’ll get one of the women at reception to keep an eye on the boys.”

I hesitated, and then asked him bluntly, “Would you do that if they were
your
children?”

Hagan paused, but not for long. “Probably not,” he answered, “but I’m hoping you will.”

I did.

Hagan took me to a nightclub just down the street from the hotel.

Sitting at a table, waiting for us, were Kim Smith and her husband, Dylan. Kim was Jean Smith’s daughter; she had fallen in love with this hardscrabble Irishman and had thrown in her lot with his. We drank and listened to music, and I pretended to chat with Kim when all the while there was a burning sensation in the pit of my stomach. I felt Hagan’s leg brush against mine. I felt his eyes, the effort he made to appear relaxed. An hour ticked by, and with every passing moment my anxiety increased.

“I need to go. I’m worried about the children,” I whispered to Hagan.

“Yes, of course. All right. I’ll walk you back,” he said, and rose from his chair.

We said our good-nights, and I could feel Kim Smith’s curious eyes on my back as we made our way through the room and out into the cool, misty Dublin night.

We didn’t say much, walking toward the hotel. It was as if it was too painful to make small talk. When we arrived at the hotel, it was well after two in the morning. We stood facing each other, just outside the lobby door. A minute passed in silence.

“Would you like to come up for a nightcap?” I asked, fixing a brave, cavalier smile on my face.

Hagan looked at his shoes, which I immediately interpreted as a rejection. Then he surprised me. “Yes, I would like to come up.” This response was unexpected.

I giggled and, as I disapprove of giggling in others, said quickly, “But I won’t be interfered with.”

“Too bad.”

“And what about the ambassador—won’t she be upset?”

“Frankly, my dear, I don’t give a damn,” Hagan said, opening wide the hotel door and ushering me into the lobby.

Upstairs, the room was even more welcoming than I’d remembered. Everything in it was comfortable, clean, and plush. The lighting was soft, the lampshades a dusky rose. Two perfect chocolates sat on the pillows. “Thank God someone thought of dinner,” Hagan said, scooping one into his mouth. I poured the wine—a lovely red—and we drank. He sat on the bed; I sat next to him. I asked why he hadn’t called me in Dingle, why he hadn’t made the reservation at the Westbury as he’d said he would, why he hadn’t come for me until almost midnight. His discomfort was evident in the reddening of his cheeks.

He was embarrassed and explained that Jean Smith brooked no disloyalty and that when he was expected to escort her to a dinner, it went without saying that he was to be available to her for the entire night, until she ordained that the evening was over and that she was going to retire.

“How tiresome,” I said, “and dictatorial. Is there any fun in it for you?”

“Oh, sure,” Hagan replied. “Jean’s terrific company, and she’s full of mischief. She and your mother have that in common. She knows a lot of fascinating people. Jim Sheridan, Seamus Heaney, Daniel Day-Lewis. I’ve had some great all-nighters. The Irish are captivating talkers.”

He paused, and then went on. “You know, it was Jean’s husband who was my friend. Steve Smith. I promised him, before he died, that I’d keep an eye on Jean and see to it that she never lacked for an escort.”

“Kind of you, but evidently there’s a price to pay.”

“A very small price,” Tim corrected me. “Jean is a generous,
smart, sophisticated woman, and she treats her friends very well. Besides, if it hadn’t been for Jean, I wouldn’t have met you.”

“In which case”—I lifted my glass—“here’s to the ambassador!” We clinked, looking into each other’s eyes. “Why
did
we meet, do you think?” I persisted, and then Hagan had had enough.

The night unfolded as all mysteries do, with unexpected shocks to the system, suspense-filled silences, embraces stopping just short of danger, kisses portending unknowable depths. Between moments of almost excruciating desire, there was muted conversation, whispered, hurried, important.

“Are you really not otherwise engaged?” I wanted to know.

“No,” he replied. “That’s over. And you? I doubt you can convince me that you don’t have a lover.”

“I don’t anymore,” I said, and I meant it.

We talked about our families, the size of them, the endless sense of responsibility, the feeling that we were old well before our time. “At five, I understood the importance of time,” Hagan said, with a wry smile. “I was in charge of the younger ones. I was accountable.” He sighed then, and I understood that he was weary of the baggage of life, of the hand he had drawn, of the very goodness of his character, which prevented him from seeking his own happiness. In turn, he questioned me about the baby I had given up for adoption. How had I managed the sadness, all of this time? Where did I put it?

“In my work, I suppose,” I answered, quietly. “Not very original, but there you have it. The work has saved me.”

He looked at me, propped himself up on an elbow.

“Ah,” he said, as if uncovering a secret, “that’s it, then. Your work is what you love most.”

“And my children, of course,” I said.

“Yes, you love your children, but you can’t
live
without your work.”

This unsettled me, and I found myself growing defensive.

“I certainly couldn’t live without my children, either, so it’s an absurd argument.”

“Ah, but it’s not an argument at all.” Hagan looked at me carefully. “No one is arguing your right to happiness, particularly after what you’ve been through.”

“And what about you? Do your daughters define you?” Now I wanted some answers.

“Of course they don’t define me, but they need me, and I have made a commitment to their well-being.” He was grave, something had shifted.

“And that’s the most important thing,” I challenged him, “above and beyond all else.”

Hagan lit a cigarette, and then replied so softly I could barely make out the words. “I’m afraid so,” he whispered. “I’m afraid so.”

It was almost dawn, and I knew he needed to get back to the Residence before he could be found out. We were neither lovers nor friends. We hung on the moment of separation as if it was very possible we would never see each other again. An extraordinary strength of will kept me from saying anything more. Hagan slipped into his jacket and ran a hand through his thick black hair. He shook his head, and chuckled.

“This was a wonderful night,” he said.

“Yes, it was,” I agreed, “but we were wise not to—”

“Absolutely,” Hagan interrupted, “because what if it isn’t real? What if it’s only Irish mist?”

I smoothed his collar and put my hand to his cheek. “Time will tell,” I said. He nodded, opened the door, and walked into the corridor.

I moved quickly to the window, which opened onto the lane, where I knew he would soon appear. Such an unbearable suspension of time, before I saw his figure under the streetlamp. Not particularly tall, not particularly burly, not particularly
anything, but indisputably and singularly Tim Hagan. Just as he reached the end of the lane, he turned and, seeing me in the window, lifted his hand in farewell. I waved and kept my hand in midair, a salute. The dawn had crept in on little cat’s feet, and now here she was, whispering with light, lifting the mist.

A week later, I found myself lying like a corpse in a tiny bed in a bad hotel in Piccadilly. The boys were safely ensconced in a slightly larger box down the hall and were now fast asleep, after having been to the Tower of London, the London Zoo, and Madame Tussauds. It was two in the morning, and I was wide awake, anticipating the hand-off that would take place the following day. Robert Egan had arrived in London and would take the boys for the last two weeks of the summer holiday. I was imagining how I would feel in the moment of seeing Egan and delivering the children into his hands. The politeness I would assume, the veneer of congeniality, the strain—at this moment, the phone rang, startling me. I reached for the receiver and whispered, “Hello?” as if the tiny room had been bugged by the CIA. A pause, very slight, on the other end, and then a voice, rich and deep, said my name.

“Kate.”

“Tim,” I replied. “How on earth did you find me?”

“Well, I’m afraid I had to disturb your dear mother to get the details, but she gave them to me.”

“Was she surprised to hear from you?” I asked.

“No, not surprised to hear from me, but surprised as hell to hear that I was looking for her daughter in London.”

Even with happiness flooding through me, I was smart enough this time to make him do all the talking. “I just wanted you to know”—he paused, clearly nervous, before continuing—“I wanted you to know that I don’t think it was Irish mist, after all.” He said, “I’d like to see you again.”

Softly, I asked, “And when would you like to see me again?”

“As soon as possible” was Hagan’s response, his voice gathering confidence. I looked out the postage stamp–sized window and, listening to the cacophonous sounds of early morning Piccadilly Circus, understood that it was up to me to walk to the cliff’s edge.