Q & A

by M. Allen Cunningham

  Winfeld

  Whatever the nature of the appearance, I would not object.

  Greenmarch

  If we utilize you, Sid, it will look something like this: you will appear once per show, every day on the air. We’ll cut to your face, you’ll say a few words, you’ll be referred to by name when the occasion arises.

  Winfeld

  I could hold a bottle of Geritol and say all the business about tired blood, I’m not choosy. But would this be like an announcer essentially?

  Greenmarch

  Not an announcer precisely. A recurring featured guest, more like. Now, Sid, there’s another point we need to discuss, and I’m sure you can guess what it is.

  Winfeld

  Sure, I’m happy to talk over all points, it’s why I came in after all.

  Greenmarch

  It’s my understanding that you called up a few newspapers.

  Winfeld

  As we both know you are referring to Dave Gelman at the New York Post—

  Greenmarch

  I’m trying to understand, Sid, what might have motivated you to do that.

  Winfeld

  —which I’m fully aware he called you up and you had a conversation the two of you.

  Greenmarch

  Had we made you angry in some way? I mean, you have your prize money. I would hate to look at this as being some kind of blackmail scheme.

  Winfeld

  That would be false, Ray. No, but let me tell you my whole situation in gist. You see, it turns out that Bernice—Bernice and me—we’re expecting.

  Greenmarch

  Oh, well now! I had no idea—well now, isn’t that wonderful!

  Winfeld

  I didn’t know myself until very recently.

  Greenmarch

  Congratulations, Sid. Let me pour you another. When is she due?

  Winfeld

  Thank you. OK, sure, but again nothing alcoholic please. And seeing as you’ve had kids yourself, Ray, you must know how tense these months leading up can be, especially if you’re short on funds.

  Greenmarch

  Certainly, sure, these times come with their share of pressure—wait, do you mean to say that your money’s gone?

  Winfeld

  Ah, yeah, this was the matter of some bookie my cousin knew—unfortunately I piddled away my winnings through my own stupidity.

  Greenmarch

  Jesus Christ, Sid.

  Winfeld

  And frankly I am physically afraid of this guy, the guy is a real murderer.

  Greenmarch

  Jesus Christ. Don’t you realize that in backing a syndicate, it’s an illegal thing? And those kinds of people—they can be dangerous people, Sid!

  Winfeld

  Yes, I know it, Ray, but what’s done is done I’m afraid.

  Greenmarch

  OK, OK, listen…ahhh…would it help if you had someone to talk to, Sid, somebody to just listen to all you’re going through, the pressures and so on?

  Winfeld

  Well, I’m here talking to you, Ray. Unless a shrink’s what you mean—

  Greenmarch

  Well, yes, a shrink is one way of referring—have you ever seen an analyst, Sid?

  Winfeld

  I’ve already got one, see him twice a week in fact though God only knows how I’m gonna pay him except, like with everything else, from what’s left of my savings.

  Greenmarch

  No sir, I want you to go five days a week, not twice. We’d be happy to put you in touch with an excellent analyst. Consider it done, OK?

  Winfeld

  Well, sure, I would appreciate it, Ray.

  Greenmarch

  All you need to do is talk with Denise on your way out. We’ll foot the cost.

  Winfeld

  But I’m not asking you to do this, I hope we’ll be clear on that, OK—

  Greenmarch

  It’s the least we can do, Sid. We recognize that we are in part responsible for your emotional upsets—we opened the door to these problems for you.

  Winfeld

  But in other words, it’s other things I’m still asking of you, and only because you gave me your guarantee. A fellow just needs assurance time to time, as you understand Ray, honest assurance, which otherwise you get this gnawing feeling with all the pressures and whatnot.

  Greenmarch

  The world, Sid, is a cruel world, and fate plays an even greater part in such things. What can we say? I don’t know whether I can cope with life or not, but I don’t think you’re in a condition to do so all by yourself at this stage, and I say we have help, Sid. And meanwhile we’re here working on your behalf …

  Winfeld

  And may I say a few things before we continue? For example, I’ll admit I flipped. And I’m saying to myself now, I’m saying, I’m perfectly willing to need help, that’s why I’m here. I’m saying, ahhh, Ray gave me a damn good break.

  Greenmarch

  You’re welcome, Sid, of course.

  Winfeld

  No, but listen, Ray. Just for a minute. See, it all went back much further for me. I felt in the end that here was this guy Saint Claire with his fancy name, Ivy League education, parents of distinction all his life, and I had just the opposite, the hard way up. Here was my own sort of mental delusion that this should all be coming to me. …

  Greenmarch

  So you’re owning up to it, then? That you’ve been acting badly. It’s a good first step to be able to say it, Sid. To just say, for instance, yes, there was a blackmail scheme afoot.

  Winfeld

  [sighs audibly] Ray, these are very different things, as I think you know already. Needing help is one thing, but you’re talking a criminal matter, which you can understand I am not going to come out against myself and say —

  Greenmarch

  Yes, well … now there’s one other topic we need to discuss today, which is that there are certain stages to how we proceed here. I’m not going to disclose what the stages are because I don’t want to hold out any bait or anything like. But listen, I want you to write down on a piece of paper now to the effect that contrary to what you have said in the past or written in the past, Raymond Greenmarch has at no time disclosed questions, answers, points, anything like it. Here’s a pen, Sid.

  Winfeld

  I’ll be glad to, Ray, of course. I’m glad to write whatever you say. Can I just set my glass down right over here for a moment?

  [sound of a ballpoint pen on paper]

  Greenmarch

  Have you thought of how you might reduce a bit more, by the way?

  Winfeld

  What can I say, I’m already reducing, Ray. I’m down to 179, I mean to start with I’ve never exactly been heavy—

  Greenmarch

  No, not heavy per se, only the TV camera, you know, can be a fairly unforgiving thing—

  Winfeld

  But if you put me in a big jacket that was never even mine then that’s how I’m gonna look …

  Greenmarch

  And in terms of wanting to represent the best of yourself to the young people out there, et cetera …

  Winfeld

  Anyway, I’m reducing in preparation. When I go on I want to look like a gentleman, not that little short squat guy I was before.

  Greenmarch

  I knew you’d understand.

  Winfeld

  Now, I wanted to ask you another thing, Ray.

  Greenmarch

  Sure, I think I have a few minutes. What’s on your mind?

  Winfeld

  There’s that match I’d still like to do, just fair and straight, with Mister Saint Claire.

  Greenmarch

  Well, this idea of a remat
ch, I think we’ve discussed this before, Sid. In all honesty I don’t see you and Saint Claire doing such a thing—

  Winfeld

  And it needn’t even be a cash contest, better to do it for some kind of charity probably.

  Greenmarch

  A charity match, well, that could be different. That we might consider…

  Winfeld

  In fact I’ve already talked to one or two people at City College and they said later this spring, say March, they’d be happy to host something like this.

  Greenmarch

  Around March, you say? Hmm. I’m not sure we’ll be a position to ask Mr. Saint Claire to do such a thing come March, Sid, but if, say, Mrs. Dearborn were still on, we could certainly ask her.

  Winfeld

  Wait a minute now, do you mean Saint Claire’s going to lose to Mrs. Dearborn?

  Greenmarch

  Now, Sid, I really don’t understand what you’re referring to. As you know very well, contestants play until they’re defeated and we have no way of knowing…

  Winfeld

  No, no, of course.

  Greenmarch

  Mr. Saint Claire has been the reigning champ for some time already, but no one lasts forever, as you know.

  Winfeld

  Yes, sure, he could take a fall any day now, that kind of winning streak can’t be kept up forever, sure. Well, Mrs. Dearborn would make a good contestant, certainly, but you understand my interest in going up against Saint Claire one last time, I know we’ve spoken on that subject already you and me.

  Greenmarch

  Let’s all continue to give it some thought, shall we? All right, Sid, now make sure you stop and talk to Denise about that analyst, OK?

  Winfeld

  OK, we’ll be in touch then, won’t we, Ray?

  Greenmarch

  Mm, and if at any time, Sid, you’re sitting at home in the evening and something starts to gnaw on you—

  Winfeld

  Yes, well, like I say, these times are not the easiest what with the expectancy—

  Greenmarch

  Call me up. Just call me up.

  Winfeld

  I’ll just call you up if it ever comes to that.

  Greenmarch

  Hang in there, Sid, won’t you? And congratulations!

  Winfeld

  Thanks for seeing me, Ray.

  [End tape]

  KENYON

  The letters keep coming—sack full after sack full—so they’ve hired a girl, Ernestine, to answer on Kenyon’s behalf. She’s at her desk in the lobby of Sam Lacky’s office, a sheaf of open letters beside her typewriter, when Kenyon arrives for his Tuesday meeting.

  “Fourteen today,” she calls.

  “Pardon?”

  “Fourteen. Marriage proposals. That’s in this little batch alone.”

  He backtracks to her desk, plucks up the top letter and reads.

  Dear Kenny,

  I write to you of my own volition. No one is urging me on to this action, and though it is unlike me I have the personal conviction that fate or something of that kind has demanded that I put pen to paper to tell you this: I so sincerely wish to be your bride. …

  He says, “She comes to the point, doesn’t she?”

  “None of them waste much time.”

  He smiles at her over the letter, but Ernestine has turned away to fuss at the platen on her Royal. She’s a bit older than most of the secretaries—and always very upright, a little prim, but it’s not for lack of confidence. Her eyes, he’s noticed, are a deep and living blue, and they project a surety unlike the younger girls.

  “I’m lucky to have you,” he says, and watches as she turns those eyes on him now. “To have you as a … buffer.”

  “Is that what I am, though? Mister Saint Claire, you don’t know how I worry sometimes.”

  “Over what?”

  “Over whom, is the question. Over these poor girls. How many hearts do I break every day?”

  “Oh, but it isn’t you … doing the breaking.”

  “What makes you say so?”

  Her shoulders come forward. She’s wearing a speckled maroon sweater and with this gesture he notices the shoulders for the first time: smart, expressive. He can’t think of another person whose shoulders, by their shape and slope, seem to speak of such an integrated intelligence of body and mind.

  “It’s really me, in a way,” he says. “Anything you write on my behalf—I’m the responsible one, aren’t I?”

  “I’m not sure that helps me much, Mister Saint Claire.”

  “Oh, but don’t you think …” He stops. He lays the letter down atop its stack.

  “Don’t I think what?”

  “Don’t you think it’s all just silly?”

  She shakes her head. “I don’t want that on my conscience!”

  He doesn’t understand this and she sees it.

  “They’re people, aren’t they?” she says. “It’s a responsibility. To see each one of them for the person she is.”

  He can tell she means it. There’s a tension in her face, a slight pallor. She looks at him squarely, an expectant stare. Show me, the look demands, that you’re not a cad.

  “You’re right, of course,” he says. “Like I said, lucky to have you.”

  “You’re very welcome.”

  ROLL TAPE

  In the office Kenyon and Lacky run through the blue cards. They’ve perfected and distilled this routine to a matter of ten or twelve minutes.

  “Sam,” says Kenyon, when they’re through, “I’d hoped to make a suggestion. May I?”

  “Couldn’t hurt. What’s up?”

  “Well, I realize we’re in the home stretch here …” They’ve discussed this. Victoria Dearborn will unseat him. Lacky and Greenmarch are sorting out the details—a long series of tie games is in order, they’ve said. We can’t let go of you in anything but the most dramatic style, Lacky has told him. You’re TV’s biggest winner ever! “I realize we’re in the home stretch, but I’ve had an idea for some time now—I’ve mentioned it to Mister Greenmarch …You remember, early on, how we talked of the program’s potential, Sam, for teaching. For knowledge and learning.”

  “Sure, sure. I’d say we’re doing pretty well on that note.”

  “Hear me out, though, Sam. You see, as a teacher I think of all the things that… For instance, say the program had an informational segment every week—just one segment where we explore a topic more fully, one of the topics from the cards. Say, just a minute or two on Emily Dickinson, or antebellum America, or a scientific question of some kind. It seems to me that would be a very natural outgrowth…”

  As Kenyon talks, Lacky’s eyes fall closed. Almost imperceptibly his head wags side to side. Kenyon, warming to his own idea, goes on a minute or two more, but Lacky seems to be waiting it out.

  “Think of it, Sam,” Kenyon concludes. “Wouldn’t it be wonderful?”

  In the silence, eyes still closed, Lacky draws a deep breath. Very slowly one of his hands moves forward over the desk, palm down, fingers splayed, and settles atop the leather blotter—the gesture of a man patiently putting a complicated case before a child.

  “This program, Kenny, the format, the delivery—we’ve put all the moving parts together very painstakingly. The isolation booths, the lights, the sponsor, even Fred’s suits—it’s all of a piece. Hundreds upon hundreds of factors and considerations go into a production of this nature and, with all due respect, it’s not your line.”

  “Well, of course, Sam, you’re the TV guy here—”

  Now Lacky sits up and reaches for his calendar book.

  “Incidentally, Kenny, have you got any idea how many people are tuning in every week? You seen the mail for today alone? You’re topping the ratings—not just on NBC, a
ll the networks. That brings up something else, speaking of how big this thing is—effective next week we’re moving the show to Monday night. We’re going right up against Lucy. Ray’s determined to bring Lucy down. It’s a fight to the death for him. And you know what? We happen to stand a good goddamn chance.”

  Lacky springs up and comes around to grip Kenyon’s shoulders squarely with both hands. “I hope you’re enjoying this time in your life, Kenyon Saint Claire, cause it’s a hell of a ride you’re on. Jesus H. Christ, kid, you’re the biggest thing next to I Love Lucy!”

  Out in the lobby, Ernestine is steadily at work. Kenyon stops to watch her from a few paces behind—her narrow back in the maroon sweater. The keys strike and clatter, the tiny bell dings, the carriage return zips along on its lever. What is she saying on his behalf? Whose affection is she gently refusing, and with what reassurances?

  Kenyon turns again to Lacky’s office. Door in one hand, he leans in. “Hey, Sam, listen. Tomorrow night, could I go without makeup?”

  Lacky, in his chair, falls still. “Say again?”

  “Could I skip the makeup tomorrow and go on, you know, just with my face?”

  Lacky takes this in, flattens his mouth, shrugs. “That’s a fight for the dressing room, Kenny. Not my jurisdiction.”

  “Got it. See you tomorrow.”

  Kenyon shuts the office door and turns to find Ernestine watching him, swiveled around from her typing table.

  “Making progress?” he says.

  “Dolores Fletcher,” she says. “A widow in Des Moines. She’s watched you every week and feels that she knows you. Ms. Fletcher writes, where is it?—oh, here: ‘I expect you won’t be on the program forever, but would you laugh if I were to say how much I’ll miss you when you go?’”

  “Goodness. Why would I laugh?”

  “Very trusting, isn’t she? They all are, actually.”

  “What are you going to tell her?”

  “What can I? I’m saying thank you, like with all the rest.”

  “Yes, and please tell her I would never laugh.”

  “Certainly, Mister Saint Claire.”

  “Thank you, Ernestine. And call me Kenyon, please.”

  “OK.” She smiles, a real and fulsome smile. “I sign you that way anyhow.”

  It’s the first time he’s seen this smile, he realizes, and by the way it lights her blue eyes he understands that it’s her only smile, fully authentic, never squandered or dealt out in half portions.