by Fannie Flagg
Wallace picked up a paper. “Straight from the horse’s mouth, straight from the hayseed who knocked her up. I can’t wait. You’ll schmooze them along, get them going on that happy marriage routine, and then you slip it in. ‘So, Mrs. Hamilton, how long has it been since you’ve seen your first child?’ She’ll be confused, she’ll say whatever the name of her first kid is with Hamilton, and you’ll give her that innocent look of yours and say, ‘No, I was speaking of your daughter that, according to our records, was born in 1952, and you gave up for adoption.’ Then all we do is sit back and watch them sweat and wiggle like worms on a hook. Oh, I love it.”
Dena took a deep breath and sat back in her chair, feeling ill. “Does Charles Hamilton know about this?”
“Who knows, who cares? If not, more the better … we can see the great phony-baloney Christian marriage blow up right on TV. Biggest scoop of the year and you got it, thrown right in your lap; do I take care of you or what?”
Wallace was waiting for Dena to thank him for the scoop but she was not responding the way he thought she would.
“Ira, I know these people personally. They gave me this interview as a favor. They’re going to think I set them up just to trap them.”
Wallace looked at the others. “And what bait, right?”
They laughed. Wallace looked at Capello. “And don’t let that innocent, corn-fed mug of hers fool you, Sid. She has the instincts of a killer. She sits there, smiling, batting those baby blues at them, they start to relax, and then, wham—straight for the jugular. They’ll never know what hit them.”
“Thanks, Ira, just what I always wanted to be, a killer,” Dena said. “Could I talk to you alone, please?”
Wallace was getting concerned now. “Yeah, sure. Boys, take a hike.”
The three men got up and left the room. Wallace looked at her.
“What’s the matter with you? Do you know how lucky we were to get this thing? Capello could have taken it and run with it and sold it for a fortune. I had to promise the dago bastard to make him an associate producer but I got the story for you. You should be grateful.”
“I am. It’s not that, it’s just that …”
Wallace was impatient. “What, just what?”
Dena leaned forward and looked him in the eye. “Why do it?”
“Hire him? I had to, he could have sold it right out from under us.”
“No, why do the story?”
“What?”
“I said: Why do it?”
“Are you kidding me? It’s news.”
“Is it? I’m not sure. It seems so … I don’t know, so unnecessary. I mean, shouldn’t we at least let her know it’s coming, and not just ambush her on the air?”
“Listen, we are handing these jerks millions of dollars of free advertising for Christ sakes and you’re gonna let them control the interview? Hell, no. We ask them what we damn well want to, and when we want to; this is a free country.”
“I know, but—”
“What’s with you? All of a sudden you’re Mary Tyler Moore? You’ve asked the hard questions before. Look how you nailed Bosley and the others. They’re all still screaming, for Christ sakes, not to mention the ratings.”
“Yes, but Ira, they were crooks and frauds, cheating the government. They deserved to be exposed. But Peggy Hamilton is a sweet lady who never hurt anybody. There’s a big difference here. Besides, what’s the point?”
“What’s the point, what’s the point? The point is people have a right to know what phonies they are. Now, come on, be happy. You got you the biggest story of the season, maybe the year, thrown right in your lap.”
“Ira, do you have any idea what kind of position you are putting me in? And if I do ask the question, people will hate me for doing it.”
“Oh, please, what, are you kidding? People are gonna love you. It makes them feel better about their own crappy little lives. You’re gonna be a hero … the boys upstairs are gonna love you. Your fans are gonna love you for exposing the truth about these two. Don’t feel sorry for them, they’ve got plenty of money. Grow up, they’re not the poor, innocent people you think they are.”
“What makes you so sure?”
“I know, believe me, they’re no different than any other schlemiels out there grabbing. All this fund-raising for kids—fund-raising for the Hamiltons, probably.”
“Ira, don’t make me do this. They have children. Think how this is going to affect them. And whether or not you believe it, they have done an awful lot of good for people, people respect him.”
“For Christ sakes, don’t tell me you fall for all that religious hype; the man’s a hypocrite.”
“It’s his wife you’re talking about. What if she did make a mistake? She’s human. Haven’t you ever made a mistake?”
“Sure, but I’m not passing myself off on the public as some kind of saint. Let me tell you something. You want to be a do-gooder? This is your chance. That’s what’s wrong with this country … people need to know the truth about these bums. That’s your job. You want to live in a dream world, go to Disneyland.”
“I don’t think they’re bums.”
“Well, whatever, just ask the questions. I know what I’m doing; you’re gonna thank me. Now, get out of here.”
Wallace waved a hand to dismiss her, picked up a rundown of the next show, and started working on it. Dena sat for a moment, went to the door, and turned back. “Why do you hate Charles Hamilton so much?”
Wallace looked up at her, genuinely surprised. “Hate him? I don’t hate him. Hell, I don’t even know him.”
Dena went to lunch but she couldn’t eat. Ira had taught her well, and she knew it was not the answer Peggy Hamilton would give that could hurt her, it was the question. Once asked, it would open a floodgate of inquiries. And if she refused to ask it, she could destroy her chances of getting the network job. Nobody crossed Ira Wallace—if you did, you were out. She had worked all these years to get to this point, and now this. Ira had been right about one thing. She was certainly not a saint. She had smiled and charmed people into interviews before and suddenly surprised them on camera with a fact that Wallace’s people had given her. She had been coached to get around her toughest interview of the year by smiling and saying, “I know our producers signed an agreement not to discuss on camera the assault and battery charges your first wife filed against you in 1964, and I respect that, but how do you feel about violence in general?” She knew the tricks and she was good at them. Too good. Ira knew she could do this kind of interview without batting an eye, but something was wrong. This was different. Maybe if they had uncovered something criminal or scandalous about Charles Hamilton, she might feel differently, but this was his wife they were going after. She also knew that Ira had started doing some pretty low stuff to get ratings, but this was a new low, even for him. In less than a year Ira Wallace had brought their news department from third place up to second, and now he seemed obsessed with beating out the first-place network no matter what he had to do.
Dena had been back from lunch a few minutes when Sidney Capello, without knocking, walked in her office and went over and flopped down as if he belonged there. Dena looked at him with the same revulsion as if a snake had suddenly crawled into her office and curled up on her red leather couch.
Capello did not bother to look at her. “Ira wants you to run your questions by me, make sure you get it right.” His eyes darted around the room as if he were looking for flying insects. “You know, the knocked-up preacher’s wife. He wants us to work together.”
Dena stood up. “Oh, no. You and I are not working together on anything, you creep.”
Capello’s eyes darted in her direction. “Hey, I don’t have to take any lip off any bimbo. You don’t want to work with me, that’s your problem, sister.”
Dena did not hear the last sentence; she was storming down the hall. She barged into Wallace’s office. “Did you tell that slimebag he could work with me?”
Wallace wa
s, as usual, on the phone and looked at her. He put his hand up and motioned for her to sit down. Dena sat down and waited. She was so mad her stomach started to hurt again. She took some deep breaths, trying to cool off. Wallace put the phone down. “Now, which slimebag are you talking about?”
“Sidney Capello.” Dena tried to remain calm. “Did you tell him he could work with me?”
Wallace seemed puzzled that there was a problem. “Yeah, so? I told you—I had to make him associate producer.”
“Ira, you may be able to be in the same room with him but I can’t. It’s bad enough I have to work with those other two cretins you call researchers but this guy is disgusting.”
“All right, whatever. I thought he could help you out, that’s all. You two have a personality problem, OK, no big deal. We can work it out, problem solved. Anything else?”
“How can you trust him, Ira? He may be lying about the Hamilton piece. He could have made it up.”
“He ain’t lying. We double checked. He may be a slimebag, but he’s an expert slimebag. You may not like what he comes up with but he’s the best. Trust him? Please, he’d sell his grandmother for fish bait if he thought he could make a dime, but that don’t mean he ain’t good.”
“How can you work with somebody you don’t trust? I don’t understand.”
“Hey! What’s trust got to do with work? This ain’t no popularity contest we’re in; you don’t have to trust someone to do business.”
“Well, maybe you don’t, but I do, and I just don’t feel right about asking that question.”
“Not that again. You know, kid, you disappoint me, as hard as I worked for this. And you, angling for a permanent network shot.”
“I know, Ira, but I know Peggy Hamilton and she trusts me, and her husband does, too. That’s how I got the interview in the first place.”
“Let me ask you something. She knows what kind of business you’re in, right?”
“Yes, but …”
“So business is business. They know that. Why are they doing the interview in the first place? To hustle money, right? They know the score. You’re just doing your job, they use you, you use them, business. Come on, you know better than this. You start thinking like a sap, you’re gonna have your hat handed to you and be on the first bus back to Hicksville Springs.”
Dena flinched. Wallace checked his watch and leaned back in his chair. “Let me tell you a little story. My grandfather came to this country, didn’t have a dime. He had to hustle on the streets all his life. He sold buttons from door to door; he worked eighteen, nineteen hours a day. But when he died he had saved fifteen thousand dollars and he paid my way through NYU. Do you know how many buttons he had to sell? One day I was four years old, he took me in the kitchen and stood me up on a chair. He held out his arms to me and said, ‘Jump.’ I was scared. He said, ‘Come on, jump. I’ll catch you.’ I still didn’t jump. He says, ‘What’s the matter, don’t you trust me? I’m your grandfather.’ So I jumped—and wham, I hit the floor, flat on my kisser. He looks down at me and he says, ‘That’s your first lesson in business, boy. Don’t ever trust nobody. Not even me, don’t ever forget it.” Wallace almost had tears in his eyes. “God, I loved that man and I’ll tell you something else. I never forgot it.”
“That’s the difference between you and me, Ira,” Dena said. “When I was little my grandfather did the same thing to me—only he caught me.”
Wallace said, “Yeah, well, don’t kid yourself. He didn’t do you no favor.”
Taking a Chance
New York City
1973
Dena sat in her living room at four-thirty Saturday morning eating a plate of Stouffer’s frozen macaroni and cheese. She had been up all night struggling with herself about the Hamilton piece, going back and forth trying to figure out what to do. Making a decision about her career had never been hard for her. In the past she had always been crystal clear about her goal and had kept her eye on it even if it had meant leaving people in the dust. She had quit jobs overnight to take a better one and never looked back. But this was different. There was something about this interview that made her deeply uneasy, scared her, even. It didn’t have anything to do with religion or because she thought the Hamiltons would hate her; she could always lie and say that her producers had told her that everyone knew about the first child. It was something else she could not put her finger on. Was she afraid that if she crossed the Hamiltons she would never be able to get an interview or be accepted by the right people again? Or was it simply because Peggy Hamilton was a woman and seemed so vulnerable, so defenseless? Was it because she had loathed Sidney Capello on sight? Why did she feel so threatened? She went into the bathroom and turned on the light and glanced up at herself in the mirror and was startled at what she saw. For a split second it could have been her mother’s face looking back at her.
At eight she picked up the phone. The Hamiltons’ youngest son answered and went to get his mother. Peggy Hamilton came to the phone right away with a cheerful, warm “Hello.”
“Mrs. Hamilton, it’s Dena Nordstrom.”
“Well, hello again.”
“Mrs. Hamilton, listen, about the interview. Would it be possible for us to meet, just you and I? It’s really important. I need to talk to you.”
“Of course. Come on over anytime. Or should I come to your office on Monday?”
“No, it would be better if we met somewhere else before then.”
Dena had suggested Laurent on Fifty-sixth because it was a lovely, old-world place and she was positive Ira or anyone Ira knew would not be there. That afternoon, she showed up at the restaurant ten minutes early and asked for a table in the back. Dena had on a scarf and sunglasses, feeling as if she were in a bad Joan Crawford movie. At ten minutes after four, she was a nervous wreck, had already smoked half a pack of cigarettes, and had put away two screwdrivers, when Peggy Hamilton came in. She smiled.
“Oh, there you are. I almost didn’t recognize you in those sunglasses. Sorry I’m late. Will you forgive me?”
“Of course, I just got here myself. Would you like a drink … or tea or coffee? I’m having a drink.”
“I guess I’ll just have a cup of tea.”
Dena called the waiter over and ordered the tea and another drink for herself. Her hands were shaking as she tried to light another cigarette.
“Are you all right? Is there something bothering you? You sounded a little upset on the phone.”
Dena had just lit the filter end of her cigarette.
“Well, yes, there is. I think I really don’t know how to ask you this, it’s sort of personal. Well, actually, it’s very personal but …”
Peggy Hamilton waited, but Dena, who had rehearsed the speech twenty times, suddenly got cold feet.
“I know we don’t know each other well, but … I felt that, oh God, I don’t know if I can …”
The older woman reached over and took her hand. “Dena, whatever is bothering you, it is always good if you just talk to someone, and you know anything you say will be confidential. You know you can trust me, don’t you?”
After the waiter had gone, Dena was still debating whether or not to go through with it.
“If I can help you with something, I’ll be happy to try. You know Charles and I think the world of you.”
Dena said, “That’s the trouble. Oh, Jesus—excuse me—but this is harder than I thought it was going to be.” She stopped. “Uh … well, the thing is … it’s not about me, it’s about you.”
“Me?”
“Yes. But first of all, I want you to know that I didn’t know about this until yesterday. But … when we do an interview, sometimes the people on staff do some research to help with questions and all, and … I don’t trust this guy that my boss hired, so I need to know if it is true or not, or, if there is some sort of mistake, well, I need to know.”
“What is it?”
“My boss wants me to ask you about the fact that you … or at least they
think you might have … had a baby before you married.”
One look at the fear in Peggy Hamilton’s eyes and Dena knew the answer. The color drained out of her face.
“Oh, God, Peggy, I was hoping they were wrong. I am so sorry, if you only knew, I wasn’t even supposed to ask you about this until we got on the air. But I just couldn’t.”
“How did you find out?”
“It wasn’t me, Peggy, I promise you. Some lowlife that does this kind of thing went to your hometown in Kentucky, started asking questions, trying to find some dirt on you two, and found this guy who claims to be the father and was willing to swear to it.”
Peggy Hamilton was devastated. “Why, why would he tell anybody that now, why after all these years?”
“Maybe he thought he could get something out of it. Maybe it’s his one chance at fame, maybe he was promised he could get on television. People do this kind of thing.”
“I see.”
“Does Charles know about this?”
“Yes. It’s my daughter who doesn’t know.” She looked at Dena. “I don’t understand. Why would they want to ask me about this?”
“Oh, Peggy, I don’t know.” Dena shook her head. “It’s part of the business, I guess, to try and come up with something that might shock people. It’s not just you. It’s … oh, hell, it’s because they want ratings. It’s as simple as that. I feel just like a low-down, dirty dog, but all I can do is warn you, and if I don’t ask you about it, it probably will come out one way or another. Once it’s out they use it.”
“You know, it’s funny. I was always terrified that one day it would come out. I worried about it for years and now that it has, I just feel numb. I never dreamed it would happen like this. I think I will have that drink, if you don’t mind.”
Dena said, “Oh, please, me too, I need another.” She motioned for the waiter to bring two more and pushed her drink over to Peggy Hamilton, who sipped it. Now it was her hands that were shaking.
“Peggy, I am so sorry, believe me, I tried my best to talk them out of it but I couldn’t. I’m just supposed to ask the questions. I could kill Ira. It wasn’t even supposed to be about you. They tried to find some scandal about Charles, but this is what they came up with.”