Haag - Come to the edge: a memoir

Come to the Edge is a work of nonfiction. Some names and identifying details have been changed.

Copyright 2011 by Christina Haag

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Spiegel & Grau,
an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group,
a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

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Grateful acknowledgment is made to the following for permission to reprint previously published material:

ALFRED MUSIC PUBLISHING CO., INC.: Excerpt from Love Is Here to Stay, music and lyrics by George Gershwin and Ira Gershwin, copyright 1938 (renewed) by George Gershwin Music and Ira Gershwin Music. All rights administered by WB Music Corp. All rights reserved. Reprinted by permission.
DGA LTD: Come to the Edge by Christopher Logue, copyright 1996 by Christopher Logue. Reprinted by permission of DGA, Ltd.
VINTAGE BOOKS, A DIVISION OF RANDOM HOUSE, INC.: Five-line poem from The Ink Dark Moon: Love Poems by Ono No Komachi and Izumi Shikibu, Women of the Ancient Court of Japan by Ono no Komachi and Izumi Shikibu, translated by Jane Hirshfield and Mariko Aratani, translation copyright 1990 by Jane Hirshfield.
Reprinted by permission of Vintage Books, a division of Random House, Inc.

All photographs courtesy of the family of Christina Haag, except ( L.J.W./Contact Press Images).

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Haag, Christina
Come to the edge: a memoir / Christina Haag.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-679-60490-7
1. Haag, Christina 2. Television actors and actressesUnited StatesBiography. 3. Motion picture actors and actressesUnited StatesBiography. 4. Kennedy, John F. (John Fitzgerald), 19601999. 5. Kennedy family. I. Title.
PN2287.H14A3 2011 792.028092dc22 2010045787

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Jacket design: Evan Gaffney
Jacket photograph: L.J.W./Contact Press Images

v3.1_r1

For my mother

Come to the edge.
We might fall.
Come to the edge.
Its too high!
COME TO THE EDGE!
And they came,
and he pushed,
and they flew.

CHRISTOPHER LOGUE

Amor vinciat

S eeing a place for the first time at night gives it a kind of mystery that never leaves.

Johns mothers house in rural New Jersey was on a private stretch of road between Peapack and Bernardsville in an area known as Pleasant Valley. Bernardsville, a charming town an hour west of New York City, claims Meryl Streep as its hometown girl, and buildings from the turn of the century have been converted into video stores and pizza parlors. Peapack is smaller, quieter, with an antiques store and two churches. Close by are Ravine Lake and the Essex Hunt. The Hunt was founded in 1870 in Montclair but soon relocated nearby, and Mrs. Onassis rode with them for years. And in the surrounding fields of Somerset County, John had gone on his first fox hunt.

On the left side of the road as you approached the house, there was a meadow and a ridge with a dark line of trees at the top. On the rightcountry estates, deeper woods, and a small river, a branch of the Raritan. The house was nestled on a hill. What I remember is the peace and comfort of being there. It was a place to rest and recharge. Mrs. Onassis had a great talent for making you feel welcome, for creating an atmosphere of elegance and ease in all of her homes, although each had its own special character.

The cottage in Virginia, which she used during foxhunting season, was simple, with pressed linen sheets that smelled like rain, a sloping roof, and a large sunlit bathroom with a sisal carpet and a comfortable chair to read in. When John and I lived in Washington during the summer of 1987he was interning at the Justice Department, and I was performing at the Shakespeare Theatrewe spent weekends alone there. It was a particular pleasure to sink into that deep tub on an afternoon, the rain beating on the roof, and listen as he read to me from the chair, a book of poems or Joseph Campbell or whatever novel he was reading.

The house in New Jersey had five bedrooms and an airy living room with yellow walls and French doors that opened onto a pool and a stone patio. It wasnt grand or ostentatious; it was timeless and the colors subtle. You hadnt realized that you wanted to put your feet up, but there was a stool waiting. You hadnt realized that you wanted to read, but there was a light nearby and just the right book. Comfort and desire were anticipated, and you felt cared for.

But I didnt know any of this on that summer night in 1985Id never been to either home. Tonight would be the first time I would stay at the house on Pleasant Valley Road.

Rehearsals had ended earlier that evening at the Irish Arts Center, a small theater in Manhattans West Fifties. It was a Thursday, and the play that John and I were in rehearsals for was opening that Sunday. Winners is set on a hill, and our director, Robin Saex, had always talked about running our scenes outside. She had been toying with spots in Central Park and Riverside when John volunteered a slope near his mothers house in Peapack. It was steep, he told usso steep we could roll down it! We would rehearse there on Friday, which would give the crew the entire day to finish the set and hang the lights in time for our first technical rehearsal on Friday night.

The three of us set off in his silver-gray Honda. When we arrived close to midnight, we found that supper had been laid out by the Portuguese couple who were caretakers of the house. They were asleep, but a very excited spaniel was there to greet us instead. Shannon was a pudgy black and white doga descendant of the original Shannon, a gift from President de Valera of Ireland to President Kennedy after his trip there in 1963. John scolded him affectionately for being fat and lazy and told him that the bloodlines had deteriorated, but the spaniel was thrilled by the attention.

On a quick spin through the house, he showed us his old room. It was a boys roomred, white, and blue, with low ceilings, some toy soldiers still on the bureau, and in the bookshelf Curious George and Where the Wild Things Are. Robin dropped her bags near the bed, and we went downstairs and ate cold shepherds pie and profiteroles, a meal I would come to know later as one of his favorites.

After supper, Robin yawned and said, Guys, Im turning in. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow. I was tired as well, but too excited to sleep, and when John asked if I wanted to go see the horses in the neighbors barn, I said yes. He put some carrots and sugar cubes in his pocket, and we headed down the driveway and across the road to the McDonnells.

Murray McDonnell and his wife, Peggy, were old friends of Johns mother. She boarded her horses with them, and their children had grown up together. The McDonnells hound, who spent most days visiting Shannon, began to follow us home, and Shannon, who never strayed far from his kitchen, trailed behind. John teased both dogs, saying they were gay lovers. He leaned over and shook a finger at Shannon, admonishing him again for being fat. Dont be too sweet, Shanney, dont be too sweet. Or I will bite you. Ill bite you. Shannon thumped his stub of a tail and waddled back up the drive.