Her words on the deck the previous night were still in my ears and as I drove along the highway and over several bridges I kept asking myself why she needed to inform me about her affection for Mr. Axe. The more I questioned her motivation the more insecure I became. My relationship with her had by now taken so many twists and turns I couldn’t tell where I stood with her. One thing however was inescapable: I had become dependent on her emotionally and the thought that she was or might be disappointed in me plagued me like an unending toothache.
Over and over I could hear her words: “Iknow you know that I love my husband. I do love Emerson.” The statements of affection for Emerson rang in my mind like an unanswered telephone that wouldn’t stop ringing. I even imagined Mr. Axe, asleep in the back seat could hear the words that were pounding in my brain. In fact there were moments as I drove towards Tarrytown that I wished he did.
* * *
When I pulled up in front of the castle Mrs. Axe stepped out of the car and held the door for Emerson. By now he was halfway back to his normal self and walked briskly into the castle and, as he did so, he mumbled, “Would you sell that damn house?”
Pat appeared at the front door and helped me with a few bags that contained empty wine bottles and several dishes that Mrs. Axe wanted brought back to the castle kitchen. With a bounce in her step Mrs. Axe walked ahead of me as we crossed the foyer. She appeared to be attempting to catch up with Emerson but he had already gone to his apartment. As I headed in the direction of the kitchen Mrs. Axe called out, “I’m going upstairs to rest a bit!” Whether she was saying it directly to me or Pat I wasn’t sure and I didn’t turn around to verify it.
When we got to the kitchen Pat put the dishes away and I placed the empty wine bottles in an open cardboard box that I knew Jim would eventually pick up for disposal. I sat down at the table next to the window, looked out at the car that I had just driven from Long Island and wondered if the last twenty-four hours were real or if I had dreamed or just imagined it. The reality of the beach house, the old photographs, the wine and the smell of the ocean air continued to linger with me as if I was still intoxicated.
My thoughts were broken into when Pat placed a cup of coffee in front of me.
“So how was the trip?” she asked and sat down opposite me.
I held the coffee cup in my hand and for a moment wished I was holding Aladdin’s Magic Lamp and could just rub it and be granted any wish I wanted. What I would have wished for sitting at the kitchen table in front of Pat I wasn’t sure. In a tiny foggy corner of my mind I imagined myself wishing that I knew more about myself, particularly when it came to having a sense of what Mrs. Axe really thought about me. Also I half wished that she might even ask me what I thought about her. Or even if I had given any thought to being with another girl my own age. In another secretive narrow and shaded alley of my mind I wished I could have a talk with Mr. Axe and tell him all about my life at the castle and the secrets I shared with Mrs. Axe. I didn’t wish to see his face if I told him that secret. He might have had me thrown off the top turret like what happened to the king’s soldiers when Robin Hood attacked the old English castle during the reign of King John in the Middle Ages. It was an easy task to thank Mr. Axe for spending so much time with me when it came to imparting the happy and intellectual realms and regions of his own brain. Talking and listening to him was without exception an experience that was almost equal to the emotional and personal magnetic pull I had from and for Mrs. Axe. The pendulum-like life I was living at the castle was in many ways akin to the swing I experienced when I moved from Dublin, Ireland to Tarrytown, New York. My physical and mental existence had somehow become a similar kind of duality.
The coffee cup I held in my hand of course had no magic powersand the wish for celestial magic would have to remain hidden and locked in my brain. With no pathway to fantasy I retreated to the cup of coffee more out of fear than for any need for the brew. My thoughts were now more stretched out than ever before and I couldn’t coalesce any of them to make any reassuring sense. Pat’s question floated about in my head and I didn’t know where to begin with an answer.
Mixed in with the memories of the beach house were the thoughts of what I was going to do for the next few days and the realisation that I was to go to work in the office every morning and learn as much as I could about the business.
I responded to Pat by telling her that most of my time at the beach house had to do with Mr. Axe explaining how the world of Wall Street operated. I volunteered that the subject of finance was boring and dry as far as I was concerned and I didn’t respond to the economic tutorials given by Mr. Axe in a positive way. I added that my indifferent attitude didn’t go down well and that I spent most of my time walking on the beach alone. Pat reminded me that I should take advantage of the opportunity to learn the business and if I did I could look forward to being a senior member of the company someday and maybe even make it to the board of directors. Pat, it seemed, couldn’t stop encouraging me to be more attentive to my time spent at the office and reminded me time and again that unlike almost all the other employees I only had to answer to Mrs. Axe and Mr. Axe. She smiled at me and told me that she and her husband were happy to have had the weekend off and volunteered that they had gone away for the night and it turned out to be like another honeymoon. When she finished talking, part of me wanted to tell her everything that had happened at the house on the beach but I was still so confused in my mind I didn’t know what I would say even if I knew how.
Pat had been a close friend since the day I arrived at the castle and in many ways had acted like a surrogate mother to me. There were times over the two or more years since we met when I had a cold or was not feeling well, and Pat brought food to my room or cough medicines and most of the time she did my laundry when I remembered to bring it to her. In the past I spent as much time in the kitchen helping her as I did attending the functions Mr. and Mrs. Axe gave.
As we sat at the table the service bell rang on the wall. It indicated Mr. Axe was back in the dining room apparently in need of something. Usually after a wine binge Mr. Axe resorted to filling himself with vitamins and fresh orange juice. Sensing this to be the case, Pat immediately jumped up, opened the refrigerator door, grabbed the jug of fresh orange juice and answered the call.
When Pat departed the kitchen to attend to Mr. Axe I got up from my chair and made my way to my room.
* * *
For the next two weeks I sat at a desk in the large research office of the castle and talked and listened to the senior executives who had been with the Axe Corporation for most of their adult lives. Mrs. Axe had informed me, indeed instructed me, to be neat and clean. That meant I had to wear a shirt and tie and have polished shoes. I sat close to senior executives of the company who scrutinised data on companies that were indexed on the stock market. When they concluded their research they’d report back to Mr. Axe and exchange information and he in turn would advise clients on what to invest in and when. I floated from department to department, attempting to learn and pick up as much experience as I could. At lunchtime I’d join one or two executives and drive into Tarrytown for lunch. The longer I worked in the offices at the castle the less time I spent in the kitchen with Pat and even my infrequent walks with Mr. Axe had, with the odd exception which was usually on Fridays, ceased. Instead of driving with Mrs. Axe into Manhattan every work day like I used to, she’d called me on Saturdays and sometimes on the odd Sunday to spend an hour or two driving about the Westchester countryside with her.
* * *
Frank Dillon got the address of a television production company in New York City and he was told he could drop by the office in Midtown Manhattan and leave a recent photograph of himself and his acting résumé at the reception desk. It was early in the day and Frank hadn’t yet crossed the zone and threshold of sobriety into the smooth-sailing seas of delirium when he told me about it. Frank was sober enough to convince me that this time he was serious about going to Manhatta
n to pursue his dream of becoming an actor. At first I was reluctant to believe him as he had reneged the last time but when he pleaded with me to drive him there I wasn’t of the mind to refuse him. He, like me, probably dwelled too much on the alternate universe we witnessed on the big screen. Being a person who earned aliving setting tiles in bathrooms and toilets probably had something to do with his theatrical aspirations. Whatever the psychology, Frank convinced me he was going through a life-changing experience and I could contribute to it by driving him into New York City. Proof of this was the fact that he was cold sober when he made the request. Frank’s only acting experience, a far as I could tell, was his weekend performances at the bar.
Nevertheless the following Monday I took half a day off from sitting behind my desk at the office in the castle and found myself in New York City with Frank. On the morning of the expedition Frank took with him a photo of himself and an acting résumé that was handwritten and almost one-hundred-per-cent false. The photograph Frank planned on submitting was only slightly larger than a passport image and it was of Frank when he was much younger – certainly before the ravages of his drinking career was underway. When he showed me the address, which was on Madison Avenue, I assured him that I knew exactly where it was. Having driven back and forth to Manhattan with Mrs. Axe for the past three years I could have driven each way with my eyes shut. I knew New York City almost as well as I knew Tarrytown. I had spent numerous hours and days walking about the place when Mrs. Axe was attending to business in her office. The streets and avenues of Manhattan were as familiar to me as the lines on the palm of my hand. I also had a strong attachment to the city and its rainbow of cultures and attitudes. I didn’t need much of a reason or a lot of encouragement from Frank to get me to drive into the city. My roadster had had its monthly tune-up and it purred like a contented cat when I turned on the ignition.
* * *
Ten minutes after parking my car in the garage on West 56th Street where I normally parked Mrs. Axe’s Cadillac, Frank and I entered the lobby of a huge skyscraper on Madison Avenue. A man in uniform was directing a small group of men, similar in age to Frank, to the far side of the lobby where others who had a “lean and hungry look” on their faces had congregated. We were then told to wait at a particular elevator and to join another small crowd who also looked as if they hadn’t slept in weeks. For a moment or two I got the feeling that the group of men Frank and I had joined at the entrance to the elevator was being quarantined. It didn’t take long to hear from the assembled individuals that they were all in search of employment as actors: or, more to the point in this case, as extras. Because The Scarlet Pimpernel was set in 18th century France during the aftermath of the French Revolution, the crowds had to look as if they hadn’t eaten since the Papacy moved back to Rome. Most likely the producers of the production believed that unemployed actors were the ideal segment of society to mirror such deprivation. Talent Associates, a company led by a Mr. David Susskind, was acting democratically by having an open call for actors in his production. I had seen an old film version of TheScarlet Pimpernel, that starred Leslie Howard, in Dublin when I was a child and had remembered a few famous lines from it:
“They seek him here, they seek him there,
Those Frenchies seek him everywhere.
Is he in heaven or is he in hell?
That damned elusive Pimpernel!”
After standing in line with a dozen others the elevator doors opened and the anxious group of men entered as though they were storming the Bastille. A man, acting more like a traffic cop than an elevator operator, asked everybody if they were going to Talent Associates. In unison all the voices called out “Oui!”
“Next stop the thirtieth floor!” the man yelled out. Eight seconds or so later the doors of the elevator opened and the passengers, like cattle running down a gangplank, disembarked. Frank and I, who were less versed in the experience of what is known in the business as a ‘cattle call’, stayed at the rear of the group and followed the herd into the waiting room of the production company. This day had not only become a day of initiation for Frank but in an unexpected way for me as well.
Once inside the waiting room and after finding a place to sit we settled in quietly among the herd and pretended, more by our silence than anything else, that we knew what we were doing. While we waited for someone to come out of the office and address the gathering I silently observed Frank staring into the distance and he looked a little out of place and maybe even intimidated. His abnormal silence made me wonder if he was craving a beer or some kind of elixir to ameliorate his present reality. I looked around the room and wondered if I had seen any of the faces on television or in the movies. Almost to a man they were talking about their last job and what plans they had for their careers. I overheard talk from a few guys sitting across from me about how they had returned from Los Angeles as they preferred New York to Hollywood. Most of the group talked about having part-time jobs and some even expressed regret about having chosen to pursue an acting career in the first place. After hearing so many tales of woe my image and idealisation of actors and show business in general suffered its first battering.
After sitting for about fifteen minutes an attractive young woman come out from the long corridor and greeted the congregation sitting in front of her. At first she asked those who were already members of the American Federation of Television and Radio Artists (AFTRA) to raise their hands. Everyone with the exception of Frank and me did so. The young woman began to distribute a sheet of paper and asked all present to write their name, address and phone number on it. She then asked those who were not members of the union to raise their hands. Frank and I immediately stuck our hands in the air. The sight of the two hands signalling that we were not members of the union brought a groan and a mumble from the others in the room. Whether the men were protesting or booing I wasn’t sure.
Not being members of the union did have one consequence however. Both Frank and I were directed by the young executive to go down the corridor to another room to meet the casting director for the company. Frank immediately got up and vanished from my sight before I had chance to think about my own feelings and situation.
A few minutes passed then Frank appeared again. Behind him was a different woman, whom I took to be the casting director he was referred to. As Frank was about to fill me in on what had happened, the woman behind him signalled for me to follow her which I did. When I got to her office the woman introduced herself and told me she was delighted to see that so many people had shown up. The first question she asked me as I sat down in front of her was if I knew anything about the proposed and upcoming television production. I told her I was aware of an old movie version and I quoted the few lines to her: “They seek him here, they seek him there . . .” Without being asked I also mentioned that The Scarlet Pimpernel was written by Baroness “Emmuska” Orczy. This knowledge had come to me courtesy of Mr. Axe while he was waxing on one day about the French Revolution during one of our walks around the estate. The woman seemed pleased that I knew the author and asked me if I could speak French. When I told her I spoke a little she said I looked like I was French and that I might fit in as one of the ten or so musketeer-type characters who were in league with Sir Percy Blakeney who secretly wasthe Scarlet Pimpernel, the English aristocrat who leads a double life in the drama.Before the four-minute interview ended I had given the casting director my name, address and telephone number at the castle. Her projection of employment for me was that I might be used for two days if I was called but I had to reassure her I could make it into the city. She seemed amused that I lived outside of Manhattan and had never acted in anything other than in a play in high school. Before I stepped out of her office she asked me where I was from originally. When I told her I was from Dublin she smiled and told me that the female lead in the production was Maureen O’Hara. I jokingly asked if John Wayne would be playing the Scarlet Pimperneland she humorously replied: “No, Michael Rennie is penned in fo
r that role.”
* * *
By the time I drove off the Saw Mill River Parkway exit to Tarrytown and returned Frank to the front door of his apartment he had convinced me that he wasn’t likely to venture out into the unknown again. New York City was too busy a place for him. He complained about the crowds and all the characters he encountered in the waiting room as well. In his gut he believed he was a better actor than ninetypercent of those who crammed into the elevator that took us all to the thirtieth floor. As far as he was concerned none of them could recite Shakespeare and feel the part the way he could – samples of which he pumped into my ear on the drive back. He didn’t feel good about his interview and objected to the fact that he wasn’t given a chance to show off his acting talent. He complained that, adding insult to injury, the casting director informed him that if he was hired he’d only be a nameless face in one of the many crowd scenes. The trek into Manhattan and the reality of the herd in the casting office was not something that Frank could digest or even tolerate. It was all too hectic and competitive.
I informed him that I might get a bit part in the television show because the casting director said I looked French and if I did I would be dressed in the uniform of a French soldier. With only a slight exaggeration I mentioned that I spoke a few French words and that added to my chances of joining the actor’s union and getting the job. My projection didn’t go over well with Frank.
“You’re Irish for Christ’s sake! You’re not fucking French! What’s with that woman? She couldn’t spot talent if it jumped out of her wastepaper basket!”
I Dream Alone Page 18
