A few times I was called on by Mrs. Axe to take Adele and Jacque to town and show them the shops and markets wherein they bought food and supplies for the castle. This activity did have its benefits. I learned how to smell and inspect food and even how to prepare it for anyone with a discerning taste. And as if by osmosis my French improved. For that I was thankful.
* * *
One evening I was just about to get into my car and drive to town when Mr. and Mrs. Axe pulled up alongside me. They had been out for the day visiting their house on Long Island. Mr. Axe asked me where I was heading off to but because my intentions were to go down the pub I told him I was going to have a mechanic look at my car. I made up a story about how the brakes weren’t working properly.
As I stood next to the passenger side conversing, the subject of the French couple came up and Mr. Axe asked me if I liked them or not. I responded by telling him I should have paid more attention in high school to my French teacher. He responded by telling me that I should have paid more attention to him when he made the effort to tutor me in the subject. Mrs. Axe then said something to him in French which I didn’t understand. After a few seconds of silence Mr. Axe wanted to know – before I chalked up another year of not attending – if I still had plans to attend college. Mrs. Axe answered for me and said I did but that there was no hurry, given the fact that I already had a secure job with a bright future place, provided I paid attention to some of the senior executives in the office. She informed Mr. Axe, however, that some of the reports she received on my work performance weren’t altogether sterling. She was referring to my attitude and work commitment at the office. Since I had returned from my theatrical odyssey I’d been spending a lot of my time in the office but it was reported to her that I sometimes didn’t come back to work after lunch break. Almost every day I found myself immersed in reading financial newspapers and quoting stock-market trends and changing prices in commercial goods and services over the phone to several associates who sat at their nearby desks calculating and digesting the information for further use.In reality it was not the kind of activity I looked forward to when I got up every morning and sometimes when I was in town I couldn’t bring myself back to the office. I was so tired of office work I not only couldn’t concentrate or enjoy my present state of affairs, I hardly had the energy or the desire to think about a future.
The unexpected and spontaneous conversation with Mr. Axe led me to talking about the profession of acting. My limited experience in it had gone to my head and I began to promulgate and expound on the infinite idiosyncrasies of it. I told Mr. Axe that I had extended his invitation to Hurd Hatfield to visit the castle when it was convenient for him. Mr. Axe replied that he looked forward to meeting the actor and admitted he was a fan of any actor who had a booming stage voice and a Shakespearean presence. These credentials Mr. Hatfield certainly had.Mr. Axe then bellowed out: “Now go we in content to liberty and not to banishment!”
Mrs. Axe reminded me of the vicissitudes of the acting profession and encouraged me to think of it more as a hobby than a way to make a living. I wanted to argue back but because I was so attached to her I simply wasn’t able to. I felt it would not only be difficult but close to inconceivable for me not to pay attention to her. A day or even an hour didn’t go by without her being on my mind. On a daily basis I seemed to live in a drifting limbo that sometimes made me feel secure in her presence. Other days I might just as easily have been floating about in a mist of purgatory that clouded my vision and sense of a future. Since I had experienced a different life with my job in the theatre recently, I had come to believe that I was more and more in control of who I was and what I wanted to do with myself.
Still, and paradoxically, the more independent I felt I was becoming of Mrs. Axe, the more a part of me wanted to hang on and cling to her. It was as if some unseen beast was biting the back of my neck. What I was beginning to see more and more clearly was that I wanted to leave her and my life in the castle more out of the pain of ambivalence than out of the pursuit of fantasy. From the mornings when I served her breakfast, the drives and tours about Westchester County on weekends and the moments of physical embracing, I boiled in a stew of emotional and physical confusion. Also living in such close proximity to Mr. Axe, while my obsession with his wife continued was like living in a prison that had no doors, keys or guards. Nevertheless something kept pulling at me that reminded and encouraged me to step out of Mrs. Axe’s shadow and experience life without her. At times I felt I had fallen into a dangerous whirlpool and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to drown in the water or swim my way out of it. In the tumult, indecisiveness and confusion that rolled about in my mind I accused and blamed myself for being of two minds.
Living in the castle in many ways was adventuresome and at times exciting. I had met and talked with many people I’d not likely meet or know if I was living elsewhere. The intellectual and cultural life at the castle was in many ways comparable to attending college twenty-four hours a day. Mr. Axe reminded me that if I wanted a compass that would guide me towards a future I should revisit my past. He specifically referred to my parents and Dublin.
This moment standing outside the car gifted him with the opportunity to expound on his awareness of Sigmund Freud: “Think back, Gabriel. Think back.”
Mrs. Axe joined in and unhesitatingly added, “Yes, Gabriel. Emerson is right. He knows what he’s talking about.”
In my present frame of mind my relationship with the lady holding the steering wheel of the car was becoming more and more awkward. And although my past was slowly fading from me I couldn’t see myself living a life in the castle and a future with Mrs. Axe at the same time. However, I wasn’t able to imagine my present without her and this condition of consciousness was tormenting. Every day I was so enmeshed and entwined in a half state of awareness that I began to question my ability to think straight.
As I stood and listened and thought and answered questions, I was becoming exhausted and wearied. My attitude while I stood outside of the car was changing from that of a happy surprise to a not so pleasant one. My answers sounded angry and I involuntarily displayed an unwelcome and unappreciated demeanour. Certainly not something that the Axes wanted to hear or even be a part of and, before I could step away, Mrs. Axe drove away from me.
I waited a few moments and digested the awkward confrontation. A few seconds later I was driving out of the driveway and on my way to the pub in Tarrytown.
* * *
I revisited the local wateringhole in Tarrytown, after having avoided it for about two months, because I felt obliged to tell Frank Dillon in detail what had transpired in my life since I got my first acting job. Supporting my motivation to revisit the pub now was the French Disconnection andthe loss of my base at the castle, the kitchen being no longer a place for me to loiter in.
I had missed the old tavern, which had been an oasis for me almost since the first day I arrived in Tarrytown, the place where I found a welcome noisy ruckus crowd when the loneliness, isolation and silent world of the castle was leaning heavily on me. In some instances my attendance at the pub substituted for the neglected practice of religion for me. The path from being observant to the observed suited my frame of mind as I got older. I keenly missed the pub recently as most of my high school classmates had gone off to college and only returned on holidays. Some simply came back at Christmas. When they did and when I met up with them they had changed so much I felt I had less and less in common with them. As a consequence of not having applied and gone off to college with my graduating class, my social life in Tarrytown was limited and in many ways restricted to the carnival atmosphere in the pub.
However, I had stayed away from the pub and that was partly because I was a bit shy about meeting up with Frank again. I had hoped over the past few months that he had recovered from the trauma of his visit to New York City but I wasn’t sure. I imagined Frank had taken it upon himself to blame me for his bad day in New York. But when I entered the pub he
almost fell off his stool and was insistent on hearing all about my experiences since the night he leapt from my car and went into hibernation. He grabbed hold of me and became effusive and complimentary to me about what he considered to be my success. I played down any and all compliments that were thrown at me by the gang at the bar. I did however insist on buying Frank a drink. He accepted and ordered whiskey. As soon as he swallowed the stuff he once again began to brag about his future as an actor. This time however his focus and concentration was on going to Los Angeles. He had become more and more convinced that California was the place for him. I told him I had made friends with some of the actors I appeared with on the stage in Pennsylvania and a few had given me their phone numbers out there. Frank demanded I tell him everything I knew about them. I told him I acted on the stage with Hurd Hatfield, Robert Redford and Louise Fletcher. And that Mr. Hatfield had given me the name of his agent in Hollywood. I related also that I had met Peggy McCay, an exceptional actress who was leaving New Hope at the time of my arrival, after appearing with James Whitmore in the previous play, The Summer of theSeventeenth Doll. I gossiped about how I joined her and James Whitmore and some of her fellow actors for a drink at The Inn and that Peggy took note of the fact that I was Irish, and with a perfect Irish accent invited me to call her should I ever be in Los Angeles.
Frank ordered another drink and I paid for it. Sitting next to Frank was Wayne Franklin who also ordered a whiskey and signalled to me that I might cover it – which I did. Encouraging me to blabber on, Frank wanted to know what my response was to James Whitmore. I told him it wasn’t James Whitmore who offered me his phone number but Peggy McCay. When Peggy had suggested I give her a call if I ever made it to Los Angeles, I responded with a voice as American as I could conjure and proclaimed that I would nail her phone number to the back of my head. At the time my effort to affect an American accent was met with laughter. But I took it to be a warm and welcoming kind of response. Proof of this was that everybody sitting around the table ordered me a beer. Of the six beers that arrived I could only consume one of them. The five other beers were quickly disposed of by the three others actors and two actresses of which Peggy was one. This kind of fellowship and ‘sharing’ was common among vagabonds in the past and as far as I was concerned it was still practised among actors and actresses. It was this kind of thinking that brought me back to visit Frank at the bar. I ordered a whiskey for myself and almost consumed it before the bartender had time to withdraw the bottle from the shot glass. Then with more confidence than I’d had in a long time I decided I was going to celebrate something I had been thinking seriously about for over a month. I had now finally come to the conclusion that I was simply not cut out for office work and I planned on telling Mrs. Axe that I was seriously thinking of leaving Tarrytown and quitting work at the castle. Frank and the others raised their glasses and drank to my intentions. A surge of liquor-coated courage came on me and I began asking myself questions: such as, why did Mrs. Axe change my daily routine and schedule of serving her breakfast every morning? My sense of it was that she wanted those observing our behaviour and friendship to look at me from a different perspective – and especiallyMr. Axe. And why in the mornings when I showed up for work in the office did she take on the mantle of the ‘boss’ and chief executive and act when I was in her presence with other members of her staff as if I was a twin to one of the wastepaper baskets? Thoughts in my head began to unravel and I felt that I was walking on marbles and was about to fall flat on the floor. I kept on babbling to myself until Frank Dillon told me to calm down and sit back on the bar stool I didn’t know I had stepped off.
At about the same time my friend, neighbour and self-anointed protector entered the pub. Sergeant Gilroy took one look at me and shook his head and, with as definite a negative gesture as I had ever witnessed drunk or sober, said to me with a deep tone of paternal care in his voice, “I saw your car outside and you can’t drive tonight.”
I wondered for a moment if he had truly spotted my car or if he had been told to keep track of my travels. In the past Mrs. Axe had alerted him to what she characterised as my “impulsive behaviour”. It was because of this that I sometimes avoided going to the pub in case my uniformed neighbour dropped in on me.
Tonight as I looked directly at him I accepted that he had my interests at heart. Sergeant Gilroy didn’t have a mean bone in his body. The first thing that came to my mind was what we had in common and without hesitation I spoke in a clear voice, “John, you should be in Ireland.”
John laughed, “You should stop drinking and you should be home and I’m going to see to it that you get there safely.”
Those were the last words I remember hearing that night.
* * *
The next morning when I woke up I was lying on my bed fully dressed and almost in the identical position and state of mind as when I first came to the castle close to four years earlier. I turned to face the morning sunshine coming through the drawn curtains, which cast light on the bed I was lying in. Although the window was closed I thought I heard the flapping of my shirt when I first put it out to dry back then. WhenI turned back from the window I remembered that the old suitcase I brought with me from Ireland was still under the bed.
With the thought of leaving the castle and Tarrytown still in my head I jumped off the bed and pulled the suitcase out from its dark entombed shelter. The clasps were still un-lockable and the leather was even more faded than when I first separated myself from it. I touched it again for the first time in years and though I was still suffering from a hangover from the previous night, I thought I heard it snoring, and yet again I was reminded of my father. He was known in my family more for his snoring nose than from anything he said or accomplished during his waking hours. The suitcase had a life of its own and in its own inanimate way it could have easily contained the history of the Walsh family. Certainly I believed that my childhood was inside of it and was trying to get out. My past and my present seemed to be joined this morning in a ritual of giving birth to the unknown. Almost four years my life at the castle had gone by and I still couldn’t comprehensively define my everyday life or my dreams to anyone or even to myself for that matter. In my confusion it seemed to me that in dreams the logic and reality of life is transformed into a private universe and where one has to not only live alone but to dream alone.
When I descended from my half-comatose state the first thing I was thankful for was that Sergeant Gilroy was on duty the night before. How he got me home and deposited me in my room I couldn’t remember. I worried for a moment if Mr. or Mrs. Axe might have played a part in transporting me to my room. I was to find out later that it was the French couple who assisted Sergeant Gilroy in depositing me on my slumber sack.
After dismissing the approach of curiosity regarding what happened to me the previous night, I immediately jumped off the bed and looked down at the parking lot and happily saw my car parked there. John Gilroy had managed again to save me from myself and I was once again thankful to him.
This being a Saturday morning I knew I’d be seeing Mrs. Axe wearing earrings and dressed in attire that didn’t reflect the business executive she was during the week.
* * *
Ossining, a town north of Tarrytown, was situated high on the embankment of the Hudson River and its view and vantage point afforded its residents a unique vista of the great waterway. Ossining was famous for being the location for Sing Sing Prison. Sing Sing was where Jules and Ethel Rosenberg were executed for espionage in 1953. Years ago in Dublin I saw a film that took place in Sing Sing. I think George Raft was the star in it.
Sitting on a bench near the summer school I attended in Ossining Mrs. Axe and I tested and ate a few apples she had bought at a nearby fruit-and-vegetable stand. The day had started off like a day where introspection was non-existent and illusions were many.Mrs. Axe was in great form when she asked me to take the drive and I was as usual more than happy that she did.Mr. Axe had gone into the city
to meet up with college friends at the Metropolitan Clubandthat fact brought a settling and contented feeling to Mrs. Axe.
As I continued to look out at the great river in the distance I remembered the struggle I had in trying to make up the two credits I needed to get my high school diploma. Also my youthful and deep infatuation with Muriel came back into my mind. I wondered as I sat on the bench in Ossining this fall day where I’d likely be if Muriel had not fallen for someone else when she went away to college. Since my relationship with her had come to an end and the transformation of my ambiguous friendship with Mrs. Axe had begun, I felt I was exiled to an existence of introspection and isolation.
Although Muriel had gone from my life she still remained a warm and tender memory. I was lucky that my foray into the boxing world that her father supervised didn’t leave me with a broken nose. As I looked at the river I had visions that Muriel had married the young man she met at Bennington. Since that day in her dorm when she introduced me to her new paramour I convinced myself that she had forgotten about me. Had I her ear today as I looked at my life since we went our separate ways, I would have quoted Blake again: “A robin redbreast in a cage puts all Heaven in a rage.”
The time and consequence of being frightened by those who attempted to educate me with a bamboo cane and a leather strap back in Dublin was always loitering in the shadows of my mind. I had struggled to keep up with my classmates but lack of an earlier focus on learning and knowledge was becoming more and more evident as I slow-danced through high school. I had signed up for an academic programme that led to having college ambitions but I wasn’t and hadn’t been prepared for the task and my neglected and almost non-existent academic past in Dublin was quickly catching up with me. My mind and energy with regard to school back home was almost totally invested in not wanting to enter the front gate of the Christian Brothers School in Dublin. The consistent corporal punishment schooldays in Dublin were more like being a prisoner in a penitentiary that advocated closing a mind rather than opening it. In Dublin I was obliged to go to school for pain and punishment rather than for academic or social enlightenment.
I Dream Alone Page 22
