The goddamn ulcer or whatever it is hasn’t gotten any better either. Sidney this morning in the lavatory at the back of the lobby choking down antacids hoping he wouldn’t wince through all the proceedings, and sure enough there’s a twinge in his gut every minute or two but he sits it out, pays attention, does his best to get at the answers they’re looking for.
He’s here, isn’t he? He’s here and he’s himself, the real Sidney Winfeld. And what about Saint Claire? Where the hell is he?
No, Sidney’s right here in front of them—why not, what’s he gotta hide?—and didn’t this all begin with him?—the public enlightenment of these proceedings, isn’t Sidney responsible? And has anybody said as much? Has anybody in all these proceedings said so much as a thank you?
And what do they all wanna talk about but Kenyon Saint Claire?
Saint Claire this Saint Claire that. Saint Claire who when he comes out in public to stand there in suit and tie and say nothing except that he’s got nothing to say—and he’s positively mobbed with reporters and camera guys every time, but meanwhile Sidney can’t help but notice that there’s comparatively few journalists crowding around whenever he stands—Sidney Winfeld stands—at a mike.
Which, isn’t it clear that Sidney’s part here even now is to play the loser after all? That even though Saint Claire was the bigger stooge, it’s Saint Claire that comes away with more so-called points in the public mind.
Sidney continues his testimony, answering their questions and illuminating for them the situation and nature of this whole charade as if he didn’t first do this very thing an entire three years ago, but what he’s thinking all the time—he can’t help but think it—is how maybe someday there’ll be a point system for everything, for all of us. Someday we’ll all have numbers attached to us and no one’ll have much choice. Everybody will know, by the numbers, who are the winners and who are the losers.
Can’t you just see that happening?
KENYON
It’s after hours, the NBC building mostly dark, but Kenyon rides the elevator to the thirtieth floor, alone in the musty cube of paneled plywood and metal, cables hissing in the quiet shaft whose blackness deepens and deepens beneath his feet, the car rocking on its tether as it rises, shuddering, its walls brushing the walls of the shaft, the dial above the doors creeping upward through the numerals. In the sheeted bronze before him stands Kenyon’s double: a squeezed and elongated figure, the lines of the arms and legs a little wavy and the grim face weirdly skeletal.
Hello, Winky Dink.
They called him at home. Never before have they asked him to come in on the same day, let alone within the hour.
Higher and higher he goes and more and more he feels the slimming and narrowing of the brick tower surrounding him—its stacked windows, its sheer height, and the numb removal of the twentieth, the twenty-fifth, thirtieth floor from the noise and bustle of the street.
This afternoon in Dad’s office, on a small TV set borrowed from the student lounge, Kenyon and Dad watched Sidney Winfeld testifying in Washington. In that distant field of black and white, among the shrunken but somehow still authoritative men of Congress, their suited figures seated in one long row behind placards (each placard sternly engraved with the man’s name), Kenyon’s own name kept coming up.
Watching beside him, Dad was very quiet and still, even as the words Kenyon Saint Claire recurred and recurred, echoing first in the contained space of the televised hall, and again from the television itself into the room where father and son sat side by side. But even while his name was spoken, what most amazed and transfixed Kenyon as he watched were the form and features of the man at the witness table. Trim, well-groomed, thoughtful, articulate, even urbane at times, Sidney Winfeld was a figure entirely new—nothing, nothing like the man from the televised isolation booth.
The sheeted bronze slides away before him and the distortion is gone. Mr. Bigler is there in the reception area, awaiting him. All Kenyon’s perceptions are painfully lucid now. He and Mr. Bigler are walking, walking the length of the vacant offices, their steps soundless in the carpet, the only noise a soft chuttering of the ventilation system up here—those long sheet-metal tubes hidden in wall and ceiling and coiling floor-to-floor up and down the fretted framework lobby to roof.
In the conference room they find Mr. Denning, Tom Grant, Mr. Einsler, and Miss Gray.
Q:
Kenny, come sit down here.
I imagine you know why we called you tonight.
A:
I imagine I do.
Q:
We need you to tell us, Kenny—because,
you understand, Mint and Greenmarch Productions
operated with a great deal of autonomy and there
was much that this network knew nothing about—
we need you to tell us, did you know about the fix?
A:
(after a long pause)
Not really, no. There was some talk
about “controls,” that sort of thing.
But that just seemed to be
the way TV worked.
Q:
Were you given the answers?
A:
(pause)
No.
Q:
And that is the truth?
A:
Of course.
Q:
Did you—did you receive
assistance of any kind?
A:
No. I mean…
Q:
Kenny, this is now a Congressional matter.
The network, as you can appreciate, I’m
sure, is very eager to protect and maintain
its positive image in the public mind,
the mind of our tens of millions of viewers—
A:
I was offered assistance, it’s true. But I refused it.
Q:
Who offered you assistance?
A:
Sam Lacky. The program producers.
Q:
It’s important that the truth come out.
It’s important, Kenny, that this network
demonstrate to the committee its
full cooperation.
A:
Yes. I see.
Q:
And especially the full cooperation—
the forthcomingness—of any person
strongly associated with this
network in the public mind.
A:
Yes, of course.
Q:
You are one such person, Kenny.
A:
I see.
Q:
Kenny, we need you to contact that committee.
A:
Sir, I haven’t been asked to testify. The Chairman
wants to avoid any unnecessary hardships
for former contestants—
Q:
You need to send them a wire.
You need to tell them what you’ve
told us tonight. You need to make yourself
available. You need to do this within
twenty-four hours. Those hearings
have started already.
A:
What should the telegram say?
Q:
Talk to your lawyer, but it should
say what you’ve told us tonight, since
that, as you’ve said, is the truth.
A:
This has been a very strange year.
Q:
Kenny, you understand what you are, yes?
You understand what your face is, yes?
You are strongly associated in the public
mind with the integrity of television
programming—and
more importantly, the
integrity of this great and fine network.
TELEGRAM
To: House Subcommittee on Legislative Oversight
Respectfully request you read following statement into the record of the proceedings before your committee. “Mr. Saint Claire was at no time supplied any questions or answers with respect to his appearances on the quiz program. He was never assisted in any form and he has no knowledge of any assistance having been given to any other contestant. Mr. Saint Claire voluntarily appeared before the New York County grand jury and told that body under oath that he never received any assistance in any form from any person at any time. Mr. Saint Claire is available to the committee to reiterate what he has told the New York County grand jury under oath.”
(Signed) Kenyon Saint Claire
SUBCOMMITTEE
Chairman Marcus: Yesterday morning, Wednesday, October 7, the Chair received a wire signed by one Kenyon Saint Claire. Among other things it advised that he is available to this committee. This committee wired Mister Saint Claire yesterday—last night—acknowledging his wire, advised that this committee would be glad to comply with his request to appear and testify, and respectfully invited him to come before this committee either Thursday afternoon, October 8, which is this afternoon, or Friday morning, October 9. It requested him to advise the time that we may expect him.
It is now late in the afternoon and we have been expecting some reply, in view of the fact that he initiated the matter himself. We have not received any reply and consequently we are not at this time advised whether Mister Saint Claire will, as he suggested, make himself available.
KENYON
He asks for leave and gets it. Discreetly, while Dad is out of his office, Kenyon goes to the English Department Chair. In light of the unusual public pressures, he says, he needs time to think. He pleads for a week—a full week is what he needs—and he gets it.
A few hours later he and Ernestine are in a taxi en route to New Jersey to collect the 190 in its garage. And soon enough they’re alone together in the car, tires humming on the highway beneath them as they bear north, their bags in the trunk and the city at their backs and far ahead out of sight, at the end of the black road ribboning before them, are the barns and pastures, stone walls and falling colors of New England.
In Kenyon’s pocket, wadded up into a small tight square, is the telegram from Washington. He hasn’t shown it to Ernestine.
They never did take their honeymoon—their real honeymoon, the one Kenyon had promised her. Their last time away was Paris—with the cameras, the crew, the TODAY Show team. The story of the riggings was in the papers by then, the news intensifying every day, but in Paris they could at least pretend—the TODAY folks weren’t going to harp on the subject, god knows, their own network.
There’s no pretending now, with the stir in Washington and every day’s headlines and the public sentiment turning sour, as Kenyon’s mail demonstrates—still that heap of letters arrives daily (delivered now to a Post Office Box) but the tone of those letters, how it’s changed.
So much has changed. And now he’s fleeing not only that subcommittee but the network—television itself. But no, they’ll find some peace. For a week at least.
If they drive fast enough, and far enough north…
Wind roars along the sides of the car. They are fleeing television itself—and his television self. Kenyon’s foot pushes hard at the accelerator.
A week of peace, the telegram out of mind…
They stop at a filling station about an hour north of New Haven. Thankfully, blessedly, Kenyon is not recognized. At least he gets no indication from the man who handles the pump: steadily moving old fellow, stocky arms unhurried in flannel sleeves, stocky legs in their stained overalls anchoring him firmly to graveled ground. Salt of the earth.
Kenyon wonders: do they watch as much TV, folks up here?
While Ernestine is in the ladies’ room Kenyon takes out the telegram, unfolding it as if to read it again, but he can’t bear to read it, doesn’t intend to—instead he rips the telegram clean across, shuffles the ripped pieces together in his hand and rips again, sprinkles the pieces into a trashcan.
“Bad news?” says the attendant, hanging up the pump handle, and winks a wrinkled eye.
SUBCOMMITTEE
Chairman Marcus: Now permit me to state that it was not this committee’s intention at the outset to require the attendance of all contestants. We have had many contestants—a good number of contestants—here, most of them in public session. But this contestant, as it was with others who were reluctant to appear, seems to have challenged this committee and the facts which have been developed. …
KENYON
“Why New England?” Ernestine had asked while they were hurriedly packing the suitcases.
“The time of year,” Kenyon said. “The changing. I want to catch those glorious colors. The whole countryside changes so fast, have you ever seen it? Two weeks from now, it’ll be like a different countryside altogether.”
Ernestine didn’t approve—still doesn’t, though they’re nearly three hours along on I-91.
She kept looking at him—while they were still at home, throwing their clothing into suitcases, like fugitives already—and clearly she saw something worrisome. So she’s come along, disapproving but concerned for his well-being.
He doesn’t mean to scare her. Was it desperation she saw in his face? That’s exactly what he’s escaping, as the car hurls them north, north, north. Desperation, entrapment in the city with his whereabouts always known, his fame and his face betraying him on every sidewalk.
His only want, for the week ahead, is to be unwanted. His only want is…peace.
They’ve crossed the Massachusetts line and the country is opening up, white-barked groves and plush greens and autumnal golds racing past their windows.
We could live here someday, Kenyon thinks as they rush ahead.
Someday. A little farm plot. No bigger than Mom and Dad’s…
How the fan letters changed—and how quick and stark the difference. Even the salutations turned icy: no more “Dear Kenyon.” Most of them merely said “To Kenyon Saint Claire” now. The most hateful bore no salutation at all, nothing to delay the excoriation:
I knew you were a goddam fake
they ought to take away those college degrees of yours
all you ever did was show how cheap and easy they can buy a man’s soul
what kind of teacher does these horrid things
do you have any idea the corrupting influence
what have you ever done with your life but sponge off the honest hardworking people?
what do I say to my 15-year-old daughter (she adored you)
to my 17-year-old son (he emulated you, Professor)
SUBCOMMITTEE
Chairman Marcus: This committee has received no reply and has no further word from Mister Saint Claire. In view of the facts established in these hearings, this committee feels that the testimony of Mister Saint Claire is most important. He has failed to make himself available as he said he would. Efforts have been made to locate Mister Saint Claire without success.
KENYON
Yesterday on their arrival at this little motel outside Montpelier, he signed the registration book “Mr. and Mrs. Westhouse”—and felt himself blush when he turned to find Ernestine looking on: a strange cold ferocity in her eyes. For a moment he could imagine her slapping him. But surely she knows the consequences of using their real names.
She went straight to sleep without so much as a goodnight, turned on her side facing away.
No good morning today either, and without a comment she hands him the day’s paper, then goes alone to the breakfast room.
SAINT CLAIRE TAKEN
OFF AIR BY N.B.C. IN
TV QUIZ INQUIRY
; Winner of $129,000 Relieved of Jobs
Pending ‘Final Determination’
HIS TESTIMONY SOUGHT
House Group Hears of Fix on Other
Big Quiz Programs
WASHINGTON, Oct. 9—Kenyon Saint Claire was relieved of all his work assignments by the National Broadcasting Company today.
The N.B.C. announcement, in which the network stated its judgement that retaining Mr. Saint Claire would be “improper in light of the Congressional inquiry,” came almost simultaneously with an announcement by the House Special Subcommittee on Legislative Oversight that Mr. Saint Claire had not replied to a request that he appear today or tomorrow.
The action was taken as House investigators heard more testimony of the fixing of television quiz shows. Mr. Saint Claire, who until his suspension was a $50,000-a-year consultant and television commentator for N.B.C., and teaches literature at Columbia University, won $129,000 in 1956-57 on TV’s highest-rated quiz program. House witnesses have said this program was fixed, but they have so far made no accusations against Mr. Saint Claire.
After their few nights in Vermont Kenyon drove them east into Maine. Ernestine had stopped asking where they were going. She could see he had no idea.
He turns the car down winding forest roads, down tiny highways blanketed in reds and golds, through farmland, through villages comprising no more than a general store, a cluster of barns, and a cattle crossing. They push farther into thicker woods. They don’t bother with the map.
There’s that mountain up here, Mount Ktaadn, thinks Kenyon. Somewhere deep in the trees there are moose-haunted lakes. The seashore, too, isn’t far. Maybe they’ll end up there. Is it mostly beach or cliff in Maine?
Ernestine, still disapproving, softens a little. She seems to pity him, mostly. She can’t find it in herself, he knows, to be fully present and awake to their surroundings—not under these conditions. She doesn’t lecture him, doesn’t insist. She is giving him this time. But he knows what she’s expecting him to do. Even with every turn taking them farther down every little road, he knows.
As if to avoid abetting him in his shameful flight, she does not offer to drive. She tucks up her knees, nestling into the passenger seat, staring out at the blurred foliage. A second conscience—softer, more generous than his own—riding always at his side.
Q & A Page 30