“Just call me up—”
“Goodbye.”
COMMENTATORS
“Please go look into a mirror. As you gaze at yourself, try to get a sense of what is lost between the mirror image of you, and you.
“You might ask someone to join you facing the mirror. If so, you will surely feel that other person’s presence as you stand there. But in the reflection, this feeling will be lost. You will be left with only the image, possibly an expressive one, but only an image. What is missing from the reflection is life, or essence.”
LIVING ROOM
“Good evening. I’m Ed Murrow.”
The picture is very close on Murrow’s face, cigarette smoke coiling in his hair. Even through the screen you can smell the smoke coming off him.
“The name of the program is Person to Person. Tonight we’ll be dropping in on Kenyon Saint Claire and his wife here in New York. We’ll also be going to California for a visit with actress Ginger Rogers. We’ll be ready to go in exactly thirty seconds.”
KENYON
They’ve got two cameras running, one here in the study, one out in the great room where Ernestine waits on the sofa. The cables snake everywhere underfoot, the camera crew all chattering. “That’s thirty seconds!” calls out the Assistant Director, in earphones, and the crew begins to quiet down. “Ready, Kenyon?”
“Ready as possible,” says Kenyon. He’s seated at his desk as rehearsed.
They did a run-through earlier this evening, before the cameras arrived. He and Ernestine know pretty well what to expect, how their fourteen minutes will likely transpire. “Ed sticks to the script usually,” the A/D has assured him.
Still he’s strangely nervous. The presence of those cameras, so bulky, so invasive-seeming now that they’re in his home, and the popping and crackling of so many crew members’ feet on the parquet, and the heat of the lights with which the crew is blasting all the upper shadows from the rooms—it sets his nerves aglow. And then there’s Ernestine, poor thing, sitting out there on the sofa awaiting their “scene” together. Kenyon now feels beyond a doubt that he’s coaxed her into this, pressured her even. She seemed so torn between supporting him and her natural wish to stay on the sidelines. He could have given her the space to step back like she wanted—instead he’d all but pleaded for her involvement. My parents did the program just last year, he’d told her, my father and mother together, and it was fine. Ed Murrow makes it very easy. You’ll see. But what did his parents have to do with it, really? Why should he expect their participation to mean anything to Ernestine? She knew her own preferences and he’d compelled her to ignore them in the interest of making this spousal “appearance.”
Now, from the small transistor just out of camera view, he hears the voice of Bob Dixon, the program announcer, talking Amoco: All other gasolines contain lead. Yes, all other gasolines contain lead that really gets into your motor and causes it to become full of residue, of lead, that doesn’t help your car one bit…
What awkward phrasing. Did someone drop the cue cards? Are they having technical difficulties over there? Kenyon spots a few crew members exchanging looks that seem to ask the same questions.
But now the A/D, from just behind the camera, calls “Ready! We’re here in five!”
So Kenyon, straightening his tie yet again, takes one more deep breath…
LIVING ROOM
“And now,” says Bob Dixon, “here’s Ed Murrow.”
And from the Amoco insignia there’s a split second of darkness before Murrow’s lit face materializes, the familiar hangdog brows arched above the trustworthy eyes. That face is here to tell you the truth. No matter what the subject, this man has never lied to you.
“Kenyon Saint Claire,” says Murrow, “is a thirty-two-year-old instructor at Columbia. He teaches English and Comparative Literature. Very recently, he won a hundred and twenty-nine thousand dollars in a television quiz contest, to become the newest of the Saint Claires in the public eye.”
There’s the hint of a smile, a wink-like glimmer in Murrow’s delivery. He’s saying, without exactly saying it, Ain’t it something, though, how fame works?
“Kenyon’s parents, Maynard and Emily, whom we visited on Person to Person some time ago, have long been known for their novels and poetry, and Kenyon’s father has won the highest national literary prizes. Kenyon’s late uncle, Curtis Saint Claire, was a top literary critic and biographer. Young Kenyon and his brother George grew up in Greenwich Village here in New York, and on the family farm in Connecticut.”
The picture switches to a view over Murrow’s shoulder from where he sits in his armchair, elbow propped and debonair cigarette burning beside his ear. Between the curtains of the faux living room window before him is the image of Kenyon Saint Claire’s house front.
“Mister and Missus Kenyon Saint Claire, who were married soon after the quiz game ended, now live in this handsome rowhouse not far from Washington Square.”
Now the housefront dissolves to the live image of Kenyon Saint Claire himself, seated beside a desk piled with papers and books.
“Evening, Kenyon.”
And the image of the man in the window replies: “Evening, Mister Murrow.”
KENYON
And now they are live, and behind the invasive bulk of the camera, silent amid the sea of cables, the crew is huddled and stiff as Kenyon takes up the easy dialogue.
Just remember to look in the camera, the A/D told him and Ernestine. Talk to the camera the whole time. For there’s no one to look at, no one to see, only the circular glass of the lens where his own reflection lurks, reduced and slightly distorted. That, and Murrow’s fuzzy voice in the transistor.
Now the transistor says: “Tell us, Kenyon, what’ve you been up to since those eventful Mondays in the isolation booth?”
“Well, I’ve been busy,” says Kenyon. “Lots of things. Let’s see: I’m still teaching the classes I taught last year. I’m doing a good amount of television work and hope to do even more. I’ve still got a dissertation to write, as it happens.”
The transistor replies: “Goodness, it sounds as if you’re a little busier today, even if under a bit less pressure, than you were while on the quiz program.”
“I am awfully busy, Ed, yes. I can tell you, by the way, that the pressure hasn’t…gone down much either. There’s still television and, uh, you know how exciting and, uh, tense those last few minutes and seconds before a television show are.”
His own voice projects weirdly through the house. He can hear it resounding in the hallway. And he’s aware, keenly aware of the many ears of the crew members, and of Ernestine, listening from the other room, aware of the flow of life in the house standing at a pause, suspended and waiting, all for the sake of broadcasting house and life over the network.
There is also, ever so audible, an echo of his own voice in the transistor, his words coming back in slight delay through Murrow’s microphone.
Kenyon suddenly feels very dizzy.
But the transistor says: “From that current schedule of yours, Kenny, I gather you’ve had done with quiz shows now, except for some wonderful memories and a few dollars. Right?”
And that’s his cue. “Wonderful memories, yes, and one other thing: a wonderful wife. I’d like you to meet her.”
“Of course. Where is Ernestine?”
“She’s in the great room.”
He’s getting up now, and the camera eases back to let him pass.
LIVING ROOM
The picture changes. And here in your living room is the living room of Kenyon and Ernestine Saint Claire, miles and miles—perhaps thousands of miles—away. A whole other sphere of existence.
Mrs. Saint Claire, in a smart collared blouse and skirt, is seated on the sofa in the expansive white-walled room, a cold fireplace behind her. And in comes Kenyon Saint Claire, fresh from the study where you sa
w him just a second ago.
“Mister Murrow, this is Ernestine.” He takes a seat on the sofa cushion close beside her.
“Good evening, Ernestine.”
“Good evening, Mister Murrow.”
“Now I understand,” says Murrow, whose charming face now fills the screen again, “that you two elected to have just a very small wedding, and that your honeymoon is yet to come, is that right?”
“Yes, that’s true,” says Ernestine. “We concluded together, Kenyon and I, that if we waited a little we’d be able to enjoy a much longer getaway than if we rushed into the honeymoon now, in the midst of Kenyon’s several commitments.”
She speaks quite softly, this Mrs. Saint Claire, in an even tone—almost as if speaking to herself, to remind herself of something. Though the picture has come very close to her face, she doesn’t look out at you through the screen. Her eyes stay in the middle distance. Something very shy about her.
“I see,” says Murrow. “That’s very wise of you, I’m sure. Uh, Kenyon, if I remember the rumors, you married your secretary who was helping you handle, oh, some twenty-thousand fan letters, right?”
KENYON
Sitting beside Ernestine now, Kenyon finds it suddenly more difficult to look into the lens as advised. The second camera holds them, steady and predatorial in its stillness. He can feel Ernestine’s tension beside him. But they’ve rehearsed this. It isn’t this question alone, it’s the many silent strangers watching from behind the camera, behind the lights, it’s the falsity of this dialogue with a fuzzing voice in a box, it’s the strange spell this whole broadcast is putting on the house.
Kenyon smiles a little, then tries his answer deadpan. “Well, what you’ve heard is only partly true, Ed. She wasn’t my secretary, exactly, but worked at the production office. And in reality she’d only been handling my mail for a few months.”
The transistor says: “Well, whatever the circumstances, we’re all charmed, and you two are delightful. Now, Kenyon, when you walked into the living room there, I didn’t notice any of the tools of the scholar—books. Do you have a special room for them?”
“No, no,” says Kenyon, getting up. “They’re actually just here.”
The camera drifts along with him as he crosses to one of the panels in the wall behind the sofa.
“You see, this is a wonderful room, and all these walls are hollow—”
But now in the corner of his eye Kenyon catches a flurry of motion. The A/D is whirling a finger before him like a wheel, one hand on his earphones. And something has started the crew members whispering and shifting about.
“Look at this, Ed,” says Kenyon. “Each section of the wall here is a hidden door, and when I open it you can see…that it’s full of books. And that’s the way with the wall all around.”
The transistor says nothing.
The A/D keeps whirling his finger, eyes wide to urge Kenyon on. He’s pointing to his earphones, shaking his head.
Kenyon stops. “Are we … are you still there, Ed?”
He turns full-front to the camera, watching the A/D’s alarmed eyes, speaking into the A/D as if through a magical telephone. “Ed? Can you hear me? Can you hear me now?”
The transistor is silent. The A/D shakes his head. No signal.
Kenyon glances to Ernestine, rigid on the sofa. He freezes in place. They’re only four minutes in, but something is wrong, and he mustn’t walk back in Ernestine’s direction. He must spare her that and hold the camera where it is. Only four minutes in.
“Can anybody hear me? … Anybody? … Are you there?”
The A/D is conferring with the crew. The camera doesn’t move, but it seems they’re still broadcasting live. They have ten minutes to go.
“I don’t know what to say here, Ed. You’re not coming through. I’m not hearing a thing, is anyone hearing me? Should we—is that it?—is our time up? I don’t know what to … Should we cease transmission? … Should we turn the camera off? Ed? … Should we just turn it off now?”
Someone turn it off please …
someone someone turn it off the lights
these cameras the cables the disembodied voice
stiff silent crowdcrowded silence
and deafening echo
turn it off now
nowturn it off
turn it off and go!
7.
THE BLOW-UP
Summer/Fall 1958
“Our only error was that we were too successful.”
—Albert Freedman, quiz show producer
KENYON
“Mister Saint Claire?”
“This is he.”
“Kenyon Saint Claire?”
“Oh, I’m afraid you’ve reached his father. This is Maynard Saint Claire.”
“I’m sorry, sir, I meant to dial Kenyon Saint Claire’s office at Columbia College.”
“Yes, and you have. We share the office, Kenny and I. But I’m afraid he isn’t in just now.”
“Well, Mister Saint Claire, my name is Colin O’Brien. I’m a reporter for the New York Journal American. Would you please tell Mister Saint Claire that I called?”
“Of course, just let me take down your number. Oh, wait a minute now. As it happens, you’re in luck. Kenny just walked in.” [sound garbled] “Kenny, it’s a newspaper fellow...”
“…Hello. Kenyon Saint Claire here.”
“Mister Saint Claire, this is Colin O’Brien from the New York Journal American.”
“I’m sorry, Mister O’Brien, but this isn’t the best time, and in any case I’m not giving interviews right now—”
“It’s a little more serious than that, sir, if you have just a minute for me to explain.”
“Oh? All right. A minute or two.”
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard of a fellow called Terrence Higgenfritz, Mister Saint Claire?”
“I have not.”
“Didn’t think so. You see, he was a standby contestant on a CBS quiz program called ‘Dotto.’ On the other hand, though, Sidney Winfeld is a name you’ll recognize immediately.”
“Of course. But how can I help you, Mister O’Brien?”
“There’s no way you could know this, Mister Saint Claire, but recently Mister Higgenfritz and Mister Winfeld have both brought to the New York County District Attorney’s office separate allegations claiming that their TV quiz programs were fixed.”
“Fixed?”
“Mm. And you see, since the testimony by both of these men has caused the D.A. to open investigations into the quiz shows, the Journal American will run a story on the subject in tomorrow’s paper.”
“Oh, I see. Well, in any event, I’m not sure where I come into any of this …”
“Well, Mister Saint Claire, we can be pretty certain that your name—as one of the biggest quiz show winners—your name is very likely to come up.”
“What is Winfeld saying exactly?”
“He claims that for every one of his appearances on the program the producers supplied him the answers and directed him in detail how to behave.”
“Goodness. Why would he—”
“And he says—I was hoping to have a comment from you, Mister Saint Claire, for tomorrow’s story—would you mind if we go on record here?”
“Hang on now. First finish what you were…”
“Sure, OK, Winfeld says that on the night he lost to you, he was ordered to ‘take a dive’ as he puts it, on an answer he knew perfectly well.”
“Oh does he? Well … I don’t know what … and you would like a comment from me?”
“Yes sir, seeing as the District Attorney’s probe is likely to widen in the coming days. And after tomorrow’s story—I mean, your name as a winner is sure to—”
“And this Higginson character—”
&n
bsp; “Higgenfritz.”
“Yes, what is it that he’s claiming?”
“He has a page from a notepad, a fellow ‘Dotto’ contestant’s notepad, where she’d written down all the answers ahead of time.”
“And that and Winfeld—that’s enough to start an investigation?”
“No sir, there’s more to the story. They’ve both testified at length to the D.A. It’s a pretty deep story, frankly.”
“But what does the D.A. hope to achieve with this…”
“With the probe?”
“Yes. I mean, for the D.A. to be involved, wouldn’t there need to be criminal implications of some kind?”
“Sure, yes, and among other things there’s the claim from Higgenfritz that he was paid fifteen hundred dollars by CBS producers in ‘hush money,’ as he calls it.”
“My goodness. And Winfeld?”
“He claims to have his share of circumstantial evidence, including demonstrating that the producers coerced him in the rigging of the show and in keeping quiet afterward.”
“Well…this is quite bizarre, I must say.”
“Can I quote you on that, sir? Would you allow me to quote that as your comment on the matter?”
“I’m not sure I care to comment, really. This has nothing to do with me, after all.”
“Mister Saint Claire, Winfeld has already referred to your win as a fix. And I’m sorry to tell you, but your name is going to be a big part of this story and these events. It’s very likely you’ll be asked to testify. We’d like to give you the chance to comment now, before it all starts.”
“I don’t know what to say, except—”
“Is this your on-record comment, sir? Can I quote this in the story?”
“All right, yes. What I’d like to say is…I am sad and shocked. And I don’t know what to say except that I thought I won honestly. It’s silly and distressing to think that people don’t have more faith in quiz shows.”
“Would you also comment, Mister Saint Claire, on the nature of your own experience on the quiz program?”
“There’s nothing to remark, really—”
“In light of Sidney Winfeld’s claims, after all, the question arises concerning what sorts of pressure other contestants may have experienced, what kinds of coaching, say. Were you ever pressured or directed in any manner?”
Q & A Page 22