Ms. Taken Identity

by Dan Begley

  I don’t need much time to get ready. A woman comes in to do my makeup and hair. She does what she can with it, even though I can tell it’s too long, and it winds up looking a bit slick for my tastes. I wear the blazer Katharine got me in Chicago, with the same shirt, but this time I wear jeans. I head down to Katharine’s dressing room, which is huge and luxurious, and she’s getting the final touches on her makeup. Her hair is Heather Locklear–blond now, even though the face is still Demi Moore. It’s a good look.

  “Nervous?” she asks. She’s sitting in her chair in a robe.

  “A little.”

  “Try not to think about what’s happening when you’re out there. Ignore the camera. Pretend Regis and Kelly are two old friends. We’re all just having a conversation. It’s like we’re sitting in the coffee shop, or back at my place.”

  I’m better off thinking we’re at the coffee shop. If I think of her place, I might think of her bedroom, and what the two of us did in her bedroom, which could be distracting.

  A production assistant named Megan pops in and briefs us that Katharine will be out there for two segments: the first is all Katharine, for her to talk about what’s going on in her life; then, after the commercial, I’ll be out there to talk about the book.

  “What do I say?” I ask Megan. Megan turns to Katharine. Katharine turns to me.

  “Whatever you want,” she says with a smile. “Obviously you want to keep Bradley’s identity secret. But otherwise, talk about her favorite books, any hobbies she has, if she ever dreamed of being a model herself. Anything that would help people get a sense of her. And talk about the way we met. That’s a good one.”

  The stylist rubs in a little powder on Katharine’s cheeks to give them a bronze hue.

  “You look great, Katharine.”

  “Why thank you, Mitch. You don’t look so bad yourself.”

  Megan asks me if I’d like to meet the musical guest, Tony Bennett, and of course I’d like to meet Tony Bennett. Who wouldn’t? But I pass, since I figure the less this whole thing feels like an event—and meeting one of the most famous American singers of all time would tend to do that—the better. I’ll stick with Katharine’s notion that I’m just here to chat with a couple old friends. The problem is, though I’ve had friends named Kelly, I’ve never had a friend named Regis. Tim or Ed, yes. Can I call him Ed?

  I camp out in the green room and the show starts. Regis and Kelly come out and do their bit. Regis talks about how he was at a party at Al Roker’s house and he was disappointed that Spike Lee wasn’t there, since Spike Lee always stares at him, and he wanted to ask Spike why he always stares at him, and is it because Spike wants him to be in one of his movies. Kelly thinks Spike wants to do the Regis story, starring Regis, and he wants to get a good look at him from all angles, and she says she wants Elisha Cuthbert to play her in the movie, and Regis asks her why she thinks she’d be in the movie at all. Then Regis tells us that this is the warmest year on record for the Netherlands: an average of eleven degrees Celsius, and let’s give a hand to the Dutch. Then they spin the wheel and ask a trivia question about Matt Damon, and a woman named Gerry wins a trip to Barbados, and the lucky member of the studio audience in seat 152 gets three pieces of luggage. Also, just before the commercial, they single out William and Gladys Davenport, here to celebrate their sixty-fifth wedding anniversary, with children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren. She stands up, and he takes a bit longer, because he’s using a cane, and it’s not even clear when he is standing up, since his spine looks to have rolled itself into something of a C after eighty-five-plus years. They get a nice round of applause.

  After the break, Katharine comes out in her Dolce & Gabbana dress, graceful, elegant, sexy, and when she perches on her stool it’s hard not to notice her legs, or chest, or face. She talks about The Cappuccino Club being made into a movie, and what it’s like to work on the screenplay version of your own book, and how it feels be on People’s best-dressed list year after year, and who she’s been linked with; and it’s funny to see her tossing out names of celebrities like they’re her friends, when they are her friends. What’s even stranger is to think that in a few minutes, I’ll be leaving this room where I am, watching them on TV, and I’ll be out there sitting next to them, on TV. It’d be like watching an episode of ER and seeing Dr. Kovac work on a guy, then they go to the commercial, and when they come back, you’re standing in the room now, too, handing him a syringe loaded with ten cc’s of epinephrine, stat. Anyway, now they’re getting around to Catwalk Mama, because Regis is talking about Katharine being not only a great writer herself, but also a finder of great writers. He holds up a copy of my book.

  “Coming up, you’ll meet the man who just might be able to shed some light on the surprise smash book of the season.”

  Megan walks me out on stage, gets a mic hooked to my blazer, and makes sure it’s working. I shake hands with Regis and give Kelly a quick hug. He’s a funny guy, that Regis. He takes one look at me and barks at Gelman in that Regis sort of way, Will he ever schedule a guest who’s shorter than him? I get myself propped on my stool and take a breath. Kelly tells me she likes my blazer, so I tell her Katharine picked it out, and the shirt, then the two of them start talking clothes, and Regis gives me a wink, and it almost feels like I’m back in the studio, minus a few “vavooms.” I just might make this. I just might be fine. We return to live.

  “Okay, we’re back with Katharine Longwell, celebrated best-selling author who you all know, and we’re joined by Mitch Samuel. Mitch is an acquaintance of the author of Catwalk Mama, and here to perhaps shed some light on our mystery writer. But first, Mitch, let’s talk about you. Where are you from?”

  “St. Louis.”

  “Ah, Gateway to the West. The Cardinals. Italian restaurants on the Hill. Great city. And what do you do there?”

  “I teach at the university.” I try not to look at Katharine, since this is news to her, too. “I’m also working on my PhD.”

  “On what, may I ask?”

  “Chaucer. The Canterbury Tales.”

  “Oh, The Canterbury Tales. You know, Mitch, that’s Kelly’s favorite book. She loves those Canterbury Tales. Talks about them all the time.” The audience starts to laugh. “Go on, quiz her. Ask her anything about them.”

  Kelly makes a face. “At least I wasn’t around when they were written, like Rege was.”

  The audience loves that one.

  “Now, changing the subject, if I may…” Kelly says, holding up a copy of Catwalk Mama. “I love this book. We all do. My girlfriends and I have a theory about the cover. Since there’s no photo of the author, we’ve decided that the cover photo is actually a photo of the author. A sort of with makeup, without makeup shot. And, and, rumor has it it’s also someone you’re related to. Am I right?”

  I turn to Katharine.

  “Come on, Mitch. No help from Katharine. Can we get a close-up here, with the cover? Do a split screen with Mitch.” Apparently they do a split screen. “Huh, see the resemblance? Especially the woman in the mirror, glamour girl. Audience, what do you think?”

  They applaud.

  “No, honest, that’s not her,” I say.

  Kelly tries to soothe me. “Nothing to be ashamed of, Mitch. She’s an attractive woman. I wouldn’t mind having those lips, that body. Fess up.”

  Regis perks up on his stool. “Who are you, Eliot Ness? You got the kid under FBI interrogation? Give him some room to breathe. He’ll say what he wants to say.” Regis makes a gesture of giving me the floor. “But tell us this much, Mitch. Did she go to Notre Dame?”

  I know why he’s saying it. Anyone who knows anything about Regis knows why he’s saying it. He’s a Notre Dame alum and he loves Notre Dame and he loves to talk about it whenever he can, especially during college football season. But it’s obvious that William of Gladys and William doesn’t know that, or didn’t hear what was said, because while everyone else is smiling or laughing, he looks lost, bewildered, swi
mming in confusion, which, for some reason, bothers me a lot, seeing that old man with such a helpless look on his face. But Gladys is on top of it, sensing he’s floundering over there (I guess after sixty-five years with someone, you get to sensing things like that), and she leans over and cups her hand over his ear, and whatever she says, it works, because his face eases itself and warms. And then, in what I can only assume is a gesture of gratitude for reeling him in when he was out there alone, he reaches over to her, with a whole lot of stiffness and creakiness, and takes her hand in his and pats it with the other, which makes her smile even more.

  And that’s when I want to cry.

  There’s a poem by the Irishman W. B. Yeats in which he addresses the woman he loves and assures her that when she is old and gray and full of sleep and nodding by the fire and has just about reached the end of her days, she’ll be able to look back over her life and realize that he loved her—and her soul—and not anything physical or superficial or fleeting about her. Now, this was written by a twenty-seven-year-old Yeats to a twenty-seven-year-old Maud Gonne, and it’s easy to say, yeah, sure, you’ll love someone till the end of time, when she gets wrinkled and her hair is gray and she has lumps and tumors and blemishes and age spots and skin that isn’t so elastic anymore, when you’re both only twenty-seven and her hair is still thick and strong and dark and she has all her teeth and her skin is radiant and her hips are fine and nothing is sagging yet, and you get the feeling he just might be saying all that stuff about loving her soul just to get her in the sack.

  But William’s gesture is not that of an amorous young man trying to woo his love. It’s the gesture of a man who is old and gray and full of sleep, to his wife who is also old and gray and full of sleep, that says, looking back on everything, if I had it to do all over again, I would do exactly the same thing and be with you; and the proof is not a three-stanza poem that rhymes abba, it’s in our children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren, and in the way you tie my shoes when I can’t tie them, and the way I open the door for you, as best as I can, and the way you explain jokes to me when I don’t quite hear them. We’ve traveled this road together, just about to its end, and there’s no one I would’ve rather traveled it with than you. And then I think of Marie, and that this is how it was supposed to be for the two of us, not in a week or anytime soon, but someday, with all our kids and grandkids and wrinkles and bald spots and creaky bones, and I blew it. And now I’m sitting here in front of all these people, Gladys and William among them, lying, and what the fuck am I doing, and who am I, and when did my life turn into this…

  I’m aware that everyone is waiting for me to speak. I wet my lips. “No, she didn’t go to Notre Dame. In fact, she didn’t go to any university. And that’s because… there’s no such person as Bradley.”

  Kelly looks at her book, like there must be, because here’s her book. “No such person as Bradley? But…”

  “Well, there is. But he’s a guy. But he didn’t write the book, even though he thought it was a funny idea. I did.”

  Kelly looks like she might fall off her stool. Katharine doesn’t look like she’s breathing. Regis appears to be the only one who’s kept his wits about him, who sees this isn’t necessarily a disaster.

  “Ah, Katharine. Clever girl. You got us all. Championing a book by a mystery author, finally revealing the author to be this strapping young guy.”

  “Katharine didn’t know about it either,” I interject. “She thought my cousin wrote it. My female cousin. I lied to her too.”

  Maybe you’ve been someplace where you could hear a pin drop—the symphony, church, a moment of silence at a sporting event—and you know how quiet that is. That place would sound like a rock concert compared to this. You couldn’t even drop your gaze in here without it sounding like a clap of thunder.

  “I, uh, guess I should just try to explain this, best as I can.” I clear my throat, and the sound startles me. “My name really is Mitch, and I really am working on my PhD. I’m also a writer. I wrote a novel, a serious novel, that got rejected by everyone. So I walked into a bookstore where Katharine was making an appearance, and I saw a display of her books, and it made me crazy, since here I am writing real literature and she’s writing chick-lit, and guess who’s in print? So I, um, picked up a copy. The next morning I went to the coffee shop to read part of it, see how terrible it was, which it wasn’t at all, but I couldn’t see that yet, and of all people, Katharine shows up and sees me and asks what I think. I wanted to tell her what I thought, right to her face, but for some reason, I made up this story that I had a cousin named Bradley who was also a writer and wanted to be like her. Katharine said she’d be willing to look at anything Bradley wrote. That’s when I came up with a plan: if Katharine could do it, why not me? So I started to write it.”

  I allow my eyes to flash Katharine’s way, only for half a second. But it’s enough time to see that someone sitting on the stool I’m sitting on might be strangled before the next commercial break.

  “The problem was, I didn’t know how to write about women who were obsessed with shoes and calorie counting and fitting into a size six and all the bargains at Bloomingdale’s. So I went to a place where there were women who did. A dance studio. But it wasn’t what I expected. The people were funny and warm and generous. I felt better about myself when I was around them, and better about life, and a lot of things made sense. Like being thoughtful, and happy, and enjoying life. They became some of my best friends. One in particular. A hairstylist. Actually, I fell in love with her.”

  There’s a gasp from someone in the audience.

  “Anyway, the writing got better, and I sent what I’d written to Katharine, and she loved it. And suddenly I was doing exactly what I wanted: writing a book that would make people smile, spending time with my friends, loving my girlfriend, who became my fiancée. I was the best version of myself that I’ve ever been. But it was too good to be true. I did something stupid once, she forgave me. I did something stupid again, and she let me go. But at least I still had my book. Or Bradley did. I could still cling to that. So that’s why I kept up the ruse, because I didn’t want to lose that, too.”

  I can see that William is following what I’m saying without any help from Gladys. I’m glad: I want him to know the truth, too.

  “There’s no good excuse for what I did. I know that. So to all of you, to anyone who may have bought the book or liked the book thinking it was written by someone else, I’m sorry for cheating you. And I apologize to Katharine. How could I have ever even thought of deceiving you this way? You’re a beautiful, intelligent, amazing woman, and I’m humbled to have gotten to know you. And finally, I want to apologize to a woman named Marie. I know I was meant to be with her, spend a lifetime collecting memories and experiences for the scrapbook of our life. But I wrecked that. I love you and I always will, Marie, and I’m sorry with all my heart.”

  In the movie version of this scene, here’s what happens next: the crowd sits in stunned silence for what seems like forever—dazed, confused, breathless—then one brave soul stands up and starts to clap (the Lone Clapper, let’s call him), and the Lone Clapper claps softly at first, timidly, but then he starts to get into the clap, really feel it, then a Second and Third Clapper join him, and they get on their feet, too, till the rest of the audience sees this trio of clappers and is stirred by them, and a feeling of relief and release begins to sweep over everyone, and pretty soon they’re all on their feet, cheering, pumping their fists, wiping tears from their eyes, hooting and hollering and screaming, like an episode of Oprah’s Favorite Things, and William and Gladys are crying, and Katharine gives me a “you silly kid” shake of her head, and Kelly hugs her copy of the book, and Regis gets me in a playful headlock and tousles my hair, and there’s such a feeling of merriment and celebration and good cheer in the air that it’s starting to look like the end of It’s a Wonderful Life where everyone is pouring into the Baileys’ living room and telling George how much they lov
e him and leaving money and pocket watches, even Mr. Gower and the guy who “busta the jukebox” and the black woman who was saving all her money for a divorce if ever she got a husband and Violet, who’s decided she’s not going to go after all, then Gelman hushes the entire studio—“Quiet everyone. Quiet!”—and announces a phone call just came through and it’s not Sam Wainwright cabling money—it’s Marie!—and she saw the show and wants me back, and there’s a priest in the audience and he can marry us over the phone.

  Unfortunately, this isn’t It’s a Wonderful Life. It’s my life. So even though the audience does sit in stunned silence when I finish, it stalls right there. No Lone Clapper, no cheering, no dancing. William and Gladys do not cry. Katharine does not give me a teasing look. Kelly does not hug the book. There is no good-natured headlock from Regis. Gelman does not hush the audience (why bother: they’re already hushed). No Mr. Gower or Violet or even Uncle Billy. Just unbearable, unbroken, unending silence.

  Finally Regis stirs. “Okay, then. The book is Catwalk Mama. Thank you Katharine Longwell, and, er, Mitch, and we’ll be right back after this.”

  I’m aware that someone is speaking to me, and it could be coming from off camera, or right next to me, but I don’t turn, don’t say a word, don’t make eye contact with anyone. I yank off my mic, slip off my stool, and head for the nearest exit.

  Katharine and I had made plans to spend the rest of the day in the city, hitting Battery Park and Tribeca and the Village, maybe toast our Catwalk Mama with a dinner at a place called Evviva. I revise those plans, slightly. I go to the airport and get a return ticket to St. Louis. I’d like to get a flight that’s leaving in ten minutes, but the best they can do is 2:20, which means I have a few hours to kill. I buy a Yankees cap and a pair of sunglasses, just in case anyone has seen the show and might recognize me as the guy who was talking crazy on Regis. Paranoid, maybe, since there are thirty million faces in the airport, and all of them more interesting than mine, but I’m not taking any chances. I buy a People and bury myself in that, and there’s no mention of the story—yet. Eventually I give Katharine a call.