How to Forget

by Kate Mulgrew

  “I loved your mother, but you see, sugar, I lacked the right kind of ambition, and your mother was attracted to ambition. In the early years, I tried to make a real success of the asphalt business, but I just didn’t have the competitive drive, the day-to-day grit. Your mother made me feel as if I could do it—hell, when we started out the sky was the limit. And I had promised her a good life. I mean, I was stealing her from the people and places she knew and loved, and in order to get her to seal the deal, I told her I’d not only give her children and security, but a wonderful life, a life that would satisfy her.”

  An uncomfortable pause precipitated my putting another log on the fire. My father sat there staring ahead, looking at nothing, recognizing something he had somehow lost along the way and had just this moment recovered in his mind. I did not disturb him, but the intensity of his gaze unsettled me, and I knew he was resolving a conflict that had vexed him for many years.

  “I wasn’t a loser, but I sure as hell wasn’t a winner, either. And your mother wanted a winner. Then Tessie died, and everything fell apart. I didn’t handle that well. I became average. And your mother—well, she took trips, didn’t she?”

  My father glanced at me, knowing this remark was loaded. Wasn’t it me, after all, who my mother had taken so many trips to see? Her eldest daughter, a successful actress, always doing a play, or shooting a film on location, or taping a series in New York. It took one phone call and the dates were decided, one more and the tickets booked. I made all the arrangements, of course; my mother merely suggested that it would be sublime if she could get the hell out of Iowa and away from her inebriated husband and live a little. She didn’t have to do a thing but sit tight until I’d worked out the details, which I did in a matter of hours. I’d send her pocket money as well, because as soon as my father learned she was taking another trip he’d hit the roof and say, “I’ll be damned if I’m paying for it,” to which my mother would reply, “Don’t worry, Tom, Kitten is taking care of everything.” This enraged my father, but he didn’t have a leg to stand on. Theirs was not a marriage in which the wife was supplicant to the husband, not when the wife had a daughter who adored her mother’s company and was more than willing to pay for it.

  “Yes, she took trips. She loved them. It was hardly Mother’s fault that you didn’t want to go with her, Dad.”

  “Not my scene.”

  I suddenly recalled an afternoon many years earlier; I had been sitting on the bed, watching as my mother packed for a trip to New York. As she placed her meager possessions inside the suitcase, I struggled with the anxiety that always attended these preparations. I did not want to be left behind.

  “Why doesn’t Dad ever go with you?” I’d asked, provocatively.

  My mother had considered this question, then said almost sadly, “You know, Kitten, your father is a very shy man.”

  As I observed my father’s tired, ashen face, I allowed the memory to settle. The impression was bruising, and I abruptly let it go, opting, instead, for levity.

  “What was she supposed to do, Dad? Sit with you in the front yard, night after night, gazing at the inimitable Iowa moon?”

  “Watch it, big shot. The Iowa moon is, in fact, incomparable, as you of all people should know.”

  For a moment, I thought he might be referring to the nights he and I had sat under the huge oak tree in the wide and generous front yard, bordered on three sides by cornfields, on the fourth by an untended, dappled glen, and on the fifth by a moon that sat in its orb and dazzled the plain fields of Iowa, lit them up like patches of silver, threw out stars as if casting diamonds. In these moments, my father and I were united.

  My father was about to say something but changed his mind. He bit down on a fast-moving grin and shook the ice in his glass, indicating that he would not be averse to a top-off. I took his glass, grabbed my own, and headed into the kitchen. The top-off was generous, and my father lifted an eyebrow when I replaced his drink on the rattan coaster. We were both nicely lit, though still short of a snootful.

  “You really can’t stand the idea of Hollywood, can you?” I challenged him, sitting back in the armchair, the right side of my mouth caught in a fishhook grin.

  “Don’t understand it. Seems like horseshit. What’s in it for you other than the dough?” He was curious, but not receptive. He had long ago made up his mind about Hollywood, and actors, and make-believe. We were a breed apart, an unsavory and unwholesome breed, and my father neither respected nor trusted the way we made a living.

  “You can grasp the value of entertainment, can’t you? People like to be lifted out of their own lives and taken somewhere else. It’s a release, a relief, a pleasure. My God, Dad, there are people out there who absolutely adore Star Trek and see Captain Janeway as a heroine. I sure as hell hope I didn’t kill myself on that soundstage for seven years for the money alone.”

  “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that. I wouldn’t last two days in that kind of a cesspool, haven’t got the killer instinct—but you do, and it’s gotten sharper over the years,” my father declared, with conviction. This revelation startled and unsettled me.

  “Are you kidding me? You see, this is what comes of never watching me on television. You have no idea what I do, why I do it, or what it means. You think I’m some egomaniac stalking the soundstages of Paramount Studios, ready to jump at the next best offer, happy to walk over anyone who might be in my way. And essentially, only for the profit. Do you honestly think I’ve done this for thirty-two years because I’m greedy? It’s never occurred to you that I’ve done it because I love it? Come on, Dad, tell me—is that true?”

  My father looked at me, pursed his lips, and drew them down, a signal of possible détente. This was because it was growing late, he was buzzed, and because he may have been remembering a hot June day many years earlier, when I was fourteen years old, and he had reluctantly agreed to drive me to Milwaukee, where auditions were being held for the local summer theater. It was highly uncommon for my father to offer me assistance, particularly when it involved the pursuit of my dream. I had always been aware of his distaste for the craft that had so captured my imagination and was shocked when he agreed to drive me the three hours to Milwaukee during the height of his bidding season when, after a brutal winter, most of the roads and bridges in the tristate area were in dire need of repair. It was very unlike him to forgo a chance at winning a good contracting job, and yet he informed me in the early morning that it would be himself, and not my mother, who would be driving me to the audition in Wisconsin.

  Incredulous, I climbed into my father’s Oldsmobile, and waved good-bye to my mother, who stood at the end of the brick path, her hand raised in a somewhat dubious salute, a gesture which said to me both good luck and good God. She, too, had been amazed at my father’s willingness to accommodate me, and couldn’t wait to hear about the six hours of agonizing stillness that being in the car with him would mean.

  Indeed, an excruciating silence ensued for almost the full three hours of driving time to Milwaukee. Occasionally, my father lit a cigarette and, rolling down the window, turned his head and exhaled great shafts of smoke into the bright summer day. I sat next to him, desperately trying to concentrate on my audition pieces which, of course, I had memorized to the letter, but it was hard not to steal glances at my father’s profile, so strong against the sun, his thick black hair moving gently in the breeze, the cigarette caught carelessly, gracefully between index finger and thumb, his eyes fixed on the road ahead.

  We stopped only once, to fill up the car with gas, and to allow my father the opportunity to ascertain the correct directions to the summer theater where I was auditioning. I watched him in pantomime through the windshield, leaning casually against the counter, taking the attendant into his confidence, luring him with charm, pointing to something on the map unfolded before him, and suddenly the two men were laughing and I could tell by my father’s gestures that he had compressed the story into the tale of a father’s duty, alb
eit toward a daughter who was a little goofy, a little demanding, and more than a little dramatic. Loopy smiles all around, fathers sharing a common burden.

  When we pulled into the gravel driveway leading to the theater, I told my father that I didn’t know how long it would take, I’d never done this before and wasn’t sure exactly what was involved. My father patted the newspaper resting in the center console, pointed to a full carton of Pall Malls, and said, “Give ’em hell, kid.”

  Inside the barnlike theater, I was met by a forty-something man with sandy hair, who told me to take a seat in the hallway and that I would be called first for the comedy piece and then for the dramatic piece, and that neither should exceed ten minutes, as there were many actors auditioning that day. I sat quietly in a chair somewhat removed from the rest, smoothed back my long brown hair held in place with a light blue ribbon, and prayed to Jesus that I would do well. Jesus was called on in times of crisis but was otherwise left to His druthers. My hands were clammy, and my heart was throbbing in my throat when the sandy-haired man suddenly appeared and summoned me. I followed him onto a wide, dark stage, illuminated by a central light, from which I was able to make out the silhouettes of three people sitting in the fifth row.

  The sandy-haired man introduced me to these mysterious figures and then, turning to me, said, “The comedy piece first, Miss Mulgrew. What have you prepared?”

  “Kate from The Taming of the Shrew,” I replied, hoping that such a popular choice would inspire coos of approval from the audition committee. My announcement was met with silence. I knew I had to begin, that time was of the essence, that I was one of many, and yet a sense of dread stole over me, imbuing me with self-consciousness. When I was finished, the judges sat in the darkness, and said nothing. Suddenly, one of them (a short man wearing a tweed jacket, which I found odd on this blisteringly hot day), stood and called out that perhaps it might be best if I did my dramatic piece immediately, rather than having to wait for the other actors to complete their comedy monologues. I agreed, but only because I did not know how to disagree, because it would not have occurred to me to call back to them saying that I would like a few minutes in which to prepare my dramatic piece, that I was sure I’d do better if I could just have a little time to breathe. Immediately, I fell to my knees in the character of Isabella, raised my clasped hands in supplication to the wicked, if invisible, Angelo, and pleaded for my brother’s life with all the earnestness of an Eagle Scout. This piece they did regard as brave because I heard the short man in the suit jacket whisper, “Measure for Measure—hmm, you don’t get that one every day.”

  When I finished, there was no applause, and I was told to return to my seat in the hallway. The metal chair felt cool and hard under my bony rear end, and I adjusted the folds of my sea-green chiffon dress so that the wrinkles would not show when I was asked to return to the stage for the final judgment. In less than fifteen minutes, the committee had made their decision and I was asked to once again follow the sandy-haired man into the theater. I stood in the center of the stage and faced the fifth row. The short man in the suit jacket did not rise, nor did he speak, but the sole woman among the judges stood up and approached me. When she arrived at the lip of the stage, she beckoned me to come closer to her, and said, “Miss Mulgrew, it is obvious that you have the beginnings of real talent. You have strong potential, but this summer we are doing plays that require adult actors, and you just aren’t old enough to pass, so I’m very sorry to have to tell you that it won’t work this summer, but that we appreciate the effort and hope you will try again next year.”

  I mumbled something meant to sound confident and mature, and then walked quickly off the stage and did not stop until I found the bathroom, whereupon I threw myself into a stall and clapped both hands over my mouth to stifle the sobs that overcame me. Not only had I failed, but I had failed on the one day my father had offered to take me to an audition. Now he would know that my passion was, in fact, nothing more than posturing, and that my protestations of devotion to the art of acting were simply the histrionics of an awkward kid who bit her nails, thought she was a cut above, and drove everybody nuts with her demands. There was no way around it—I had to face him, but at that moment, in the humid bathroom of that summer theater where self-important men wore inappropriate jackets and where my impressionable ego had been dealt a severe blow, all I wanted was to disappear.

  Looking in the mirror, I combed my hair and splashed cold water on my face, then I tucked my audition pieces into my book bag and headed for the driveway, where my father was waiting for me. I opened the door to the passenger side, slid into the car, and immediately said, “I didn’t make it. They think I’m too young. I’m sorry, Dad.”

  My father looked at me, took a last pull on his cigarette, tossed it out the window, and turned the key in the ignition. He shook his head but said nothing. As we started down the highway, I experienced an overwhelming sense of shame, and knew that there was no way to conceal my anguish from my father, so I made a herculean effort to sit still and contain myself. This way, at least, he could not accuse me of talking too much on the way home.

  We drove for miles, down that long, dusty highway, and not two words were spoken between us. After an hour and a half of strained silence, during which the audition played over and over in my mind like a nightmare, my father suddenly signaled that he was turning left and, indeed, he pulled the car off the highway and continued down another road until, after about a mile, he came to a large sign that announced itself as a supper club in bright red neon letters. Once he had pulled the car into the parking lot, he turned to me and said, “Let’s get a bite to eat.”

  Inside, it was cool and hushed and the booths were cushioned with red leather. My father slid into one of them and indicated that I should take the opposite banquette. In the center of the table stood a low glass condiment dish garnished with carrots, breadsticks, black olives, and minced ham. Glasses of ice water were placed in front of us by a plump waitress wearing a red dress with cap sleeves and a white frilly apron who, when she handed my father his menu, said, “Well, T. J., my God, haven’t seen you in a donkey’s age. How’ve ya been?”

  My father smiled and said, “Not too bad, Betty, how about yourself?”

  Betty, it was clear, had known my father long before I entered the picture, and their rapport was immediately warm and lively.

  “Oh, ya know, T. J., same old.”

  “Betty, this is my daughter Kate,” my father continued, looking at me to see if the shock of the audition had blunted my manners.

  “It’s very nice to meet you, ma’am,” I said, rising a little in my seat, and Betty nodded not at me but at my father, as if to say she expected nothing less from the daughter of Tom Mulgrew.

  Without referring to the menu, my father looked up at Betty and said, “We’ll both have the filet mignon, medium, with a baked potato and a shrimp cocktail to start. I’d like a J & B on the rocks, and my daughter will have a Coke.”

  When the shrimp cocktail arrived, splayed elegantly in a cut-glass cordial dish with a small container of cocktail sauce in its center, I sat taller in my seat and pulled the starched white napkin into my lap. My father, lighting a cigarette, merely said, “Take one and dip it in the sauce, but don’t rush it, Kitten. They’re all yours.”

  We didn’t rush it, we took our time, and when the shrimp cocktail was replaced with the filet mignon and the baked potato, I beheld the feast before me and thought, My brothers and sisters are going to kill me when they find out, and then, just as quickly, I thought, My brothers and sisters are not going to kill me because they are never going to find out. I am never going to tell them. And so it was. I didn’t share this story with my youngest sister, Jenny, until I was well into middle age, and when at last, over a good bottle of wine, I did reveal this adventure, her expression first softened, then saddened, and finally fixed itself into a mask of resignation. To her, it was a fairy tale.

  My father had driven me to Milwauke
e, where I had failed, and where he had seen and acknowledged my failure, and he had then taken me to a supper club by way of reminding me that I was his daughter, his first girl, and that he would not forsake me.

  As I studied him now, in the deepening hours of the evening, his ill-repaired glasses removed and set to rest on the side table, his face drawn and gray, I thought again about the miracle of time, its manifest cruelty and its sublime mercy. There he was, an old man close to death, his legs sticklike in his khaki trousers, his beard gray and rough, the fine red lines of abuse woven across his cheeks like a spiderweb, and yet in my mind’s eye he was forty-five years old, charismatic and striking, and it struck me with the force of a blow that this would never change, that this was the image of my father I would carry to my grave.

  Chapter Eight

  My father sent mixed messages throughout my youth, to keep me on my toes or simply to amuse himself, I’m not sure which, but when it came to sex he was present in a way that was both unsettling and very revealing. Completely uninterested in my scholastic or theatrical accomplishments, my father would occasionally exhibit curiosity about the boys who now appeared in my life and, depending on his mood, could be generous toward them or inexplicably rude. High school football players and lovely, fine-limbed Irish-Catholic boys from town were dismissed out of hand and, because he responded so cavalierly, I followed suit, looking always for the intrigue that would capture my father’s imagination.

  In a way, my father had rehearsed me well for what lay in store. He could not have known on a conscious level that he was preparing me for the real world of men, and yet for years I was exposed to the lascivious underpinnings of my father’s friends, who prowled around our house like drunk, hungry bears. Sometimes, they hit pay dirt, and would stumble across my path in the Good Living Room, where I had paused under the Christmas tree at exactly the moment Ella Fitzgerald’s voice rose in provocative scat, standing stock-still as they came forward and, not for a moment releasing the drink clutched in one hand, caught me with the other hand and pulled me into a dance, as naturally as if we were at a church fair.