by Fannie Flagg
Dena turned. “Yes.”
“Miss Nordstrom, I am supposed to take you to your seat.”
Dena said, “Oh,” and followed him to the left down the stairs into a small auditorium. He held the door open for her. “Right this way.” The auditorium was empty but he did not give her a chance to say anything, walked her down the aisle, seated her in the fourth row center, handed her the roses and a program, and was gone.
The stage was empty except for a piano, a bass, and a set of drums. She looked around; she must be in the wrong place. She glanced at the program and then read more intently:
A SPECIAL CONCERT FOR MISS DENA NORDSTROM, PERFORMED BY G. O’MALLEY & CO., WITH HIGH HOPES OF FAVORABLY IMPRESSING THE LADY WITH DR. O’MALLEY’S UNDYING DEVOTION.
At that moment the lights in the auditorium dimmed and the lights on the stage came up and Gerry O’Malley walked out in black tie with two other tuxedoed men. He bowed and sat down at the piano. After a moment, he nodded and the trio started to play an old Lerner and Lane tune he had chosen that said exactly what he had been unable to say. And he sang it right to her:
You’re like Paris in April and May
You’re New York on a silvery day
A Swiss alp as the sun grows fainter
You’re Loch Lomond when Autumn is the painter
You’re moonlight on a night in Capri
And Cape Cod looking out at the sea
You’re all places that leave me breathless
And no wonder
You’re all the world to me.
Dena, horrified, wanted to drop through the floor, but Gerry continued, singing in an astonishingly good voice.
You’re Lake Como when dawn is a-glow
You’re Sun Valley right after a snow
A museum, a Persian palace
You’re my shining Aurora Borealis
You’re like Christmas at home by a tree
The blue calm of a tropical sea
You’re all places that leave me breathless
And no wonder
You’re all the world to me.
Among the thousands of things Dena did not know about Gerry O’Malley was that he had worked his way through college with his own jazz combo, playing every weekend at parties. Tonight, he had managed to get both of the other guys, one a doctor and the other with his own venture capital business, to come into Manhattan for the evening to back him up.
Dena sat, as he continued to play every love song he knew and a few really funny ones with lyrics she suspected were his, as well. Dena had no choice but to smile. She also wanted to run. What in the world had she gotten herself into? He was either completely off his rocker or else he thought she could get him on television, but whichever it was, it was very embarrassing. But after a while, she began to relax and to really enjoy herself.
When it was over, she stood and applauded and handed him the roses. He came down to where she was sitting and said, “Well?”
He stood smiling and waiting and she said: “Well, wow! You really can play. Great, what can I say? You’re quite a piano player.” He introduced the other musicians to her and she told them how much she had enjoyed the concert.
Gerry said, “OK, guys—that’s all for this evening. I owe you one. Or two. Or twenty.” They said good-bye.
Gerry took Dena to dinner next door at the Russian Tea Room. He had heard that it was a place show business people liked. He was pleased with himself. “I just thought this might be a way for you to get to know me a little better—and give you a better idea of how I feel about you.”
“Gerry … that was very sweet of you. And don’t think I didn’t enjoy it and appreciate it. But don’t you think this is all a little sudden? I’m really not ready for any kind of serious relationship. My job takes up most of my time and, well, I just can’t do it. Right now. At the moment, I don’t know how I feel about anybody.”
“Dena, I am not going anywhere. You can have all the time in the world, all the time you need. I’m here. If it’s one year or five years, whenever you are ready. Believe me, I’m the last person in the world who wants to pressure you. All I want you to know is that I’m here—and I’m in love with you.”
“Are you serious?”
“Absolutely,” Gerry said. “I told you on the phone. Or tried to.”
“Well, to tell you the truth, I thought you were kidding. Or I didn’t know you were serious. I mean, you’re a psychiatrist. Aren’t you supposed to know better or something? I don’t know what to say.”
“Dena, I am serious. But listen: just because I know that you are the one for me, I may not be the one for you. All I’m asking for is a chance.”
At home, she thought about the evening. She had certainly heard many lines from many men, but this one was unique. She had to give him that. But he’d get over it, they always did. She’d heard that J.C. was already engaged to some stewardess. Granted, everyone said she looked like a younger Dena, but J.C. was over her. Give this one some time.
Then a terrible thought hit her. What if the network suddenly started looking for a younger Dena? She was good but she had better get in there and be the best, make sure she was irreplaceable. There wasn’t any time to waste. Too many younger and tougher girls were waiting in the wings, waiting for her to make a slip. She didn’t have time to get involved with anyone, much less a piano-playing shrink who thought he was in love with her. If she was going to stay on top she had to strike while the iron was hot—and right now she was hot. She had just been on the cover of TV Guide and there was talk of an Emmy.
Tour
Houston, Texas
1976
Dena had been in seventeen cities in seventeen days on a twenty-eight-day promotion tour for the network. They had decided that she was the perfect person to send across the country to their local affiliates because of her increasing popularity. They knew she would charm and interest everyone she met. So the publicity department filled almost every minute of her time in each town with television, radio, and newspaper interviews along with luncheon speeches, other personal appearances, and usually, if they could arrange it, a banquet speech at night. Before she flew on to the next city, she’d try to get three or four hours’ sleep and then she would start all over again the next day. It seemed like every town had a local morning show that began at seven. She had known it would be rough but Dena wanted to do it. She wanted to push her TV Que up even higher than it was.
Thank God they had sent their top publicist, Jonni Hartman, with her. Not only did Dena like her, Jonni was a master at getting Dena from one place to another and expert at getting Dena away from fans who wanted autographs for their entire family, or from interviewers who always wanted more time. And she did it without making Dena look bad. Dena had been doing a terrific job charming everyone, until Pittsburgh, when her stomach began to hurt again. She tried to drive herself through it by living on Maalox and Tums.
Right after she finished speaking at a big benefit dinner in Houston honoring the great heart surgeon Dr. Michael E. DeBakey, she and Jonni had to rush upstairs in the hotel, quickly change clothes, and leave immediately for the airport to catch a 10:45 plane to Dallas. They were behind schedule as usual, so when the elevator did not come she and Jonni had to run down ten flights of stairs dragging their luggage. They had made it halfway through the lobby when the pain hit her so hard that she had to stop. Jonni caught her just before she passed out cold.
When she came to, she and Jonni were in the back of a police car with the siren going on the way to the hospital, and before she knew it she was in the emergency room with doctors examining her, talking about the possibility of emergency surgery. After a few minutes, like a parting of the waters, the doctors and nurses stepped aside as Dr. Michael DeBakey, still in his tux from the dinner, walked in and took over.
He smiled and talked to Dena as he examined her. “Well, young lady, it looks like you have decided to stay with us for a while, so we are going to do everything possible to make
you comfortable. You know, you were quite a hit at the banquet—you had quite a few doctors who volunteered to take your case. But I said no luck, fellows, she came here in my honor so I’m the one who gets her as my patient. How long have you had trouble with your stomach?”
“Not long,” Dena lied.
He continued to check her out thoroughly, then said to his staff, “No need to prep.” He took Dena’s hand. “You’re going to live. And what I’m going to do is give you a little something to help you with that pain and Miss Reid here is going to be in charge of you.” An older nurse stepped up, smiling. “We’re going to take a little blood,” he continued. “Then we’re going to take you upstairs and put you to bed so I can keep an eye on you. OK? I’ll stop in and see you in the morning.”
The next day Dena was still asleep when Dr. DeBakey looked in. Jonni, tired and frazzled after a night in the waiting room, said, “Doctor, is she all right? It wasn’t a heart attack, was it?”
“No, Miss Hartman, her heart is fine. She had a severe attack of gastroenteritis—inflammation of the stomach lining—probably brought on by stress.”
“Thank God it happened here, Doctor. And I hate to bother you … but I need to know how long it will be before you think she might be back up on her feet. I don’t care, but the head of network publicity has already called me a dozen times to see if I can give them an idea when she might be able to continue her tour. They need to know how many cities they have to cancel and how soon she will be able to do at least some phone interviews. They’re hoping she can pick up in Denver on Wednesday.”
Dr. DeBakey pointed to the paper she was holding. “Is that her schedule?”
“Yes.”
DeBakey put on his glasses and studied it. Jonni said, “You can see she has quite a few more cities coming up.”
“Oh, yes, I can see that.”
“And they need to know as soon as possible.”
“Uh-huh. And just who wants this information?”
“It’s my boss. I mean, he’s really upset and hopes she’ll be able to—”
“And who might that be?”
“Mr. Brill, Andy Brill.”
“Do you have a number where he can be reached?”
“Yes; 212-555-2866.”
“OK, Miss Hartman. I’ll get back to the gentleman.”
“Oh, thank you, that would be great. He’s really coming down hard on me. I told him it was out of my hands.”
“Don’t worry, it is. You go and get some rest.” DeBakey, a tall, thin man, walked down the hall, reached in the pocket of his white coat, and pulled out a few almonds and ate them. He stopped and talked to an intern, checked on three more patients, and then went into his private office. He handed his secretary, Sylvia, the phone number. “Get this guy on the phone for me, will you?” When she buzzed he picked up.
“Mr. Brill, this is Dr. DeBakey in Houston.”
Andrew Brill was audibly chomping at the bit. “Great, thanks for calling.”
“I understand you are anxious to have a report on Miss Nordstrom’s condition.”
“That’s right, we need to have some idea when she might be able to pick up her schedule. We’ve got people screaming all over the country. We’ve already lost Dallas but I was thinking maybe she could do a few phoners this afternoon. Do you think there’s a chance she can get back by, say, Tuesday, or maybe Wednesday, latest?”
“Let me ask you a question, Mr. Brill.”
“Yes?”
“Are you people trying to kill her? Miss Hartman showed me her schedule. How could you expect anyone to keep going at that pace?”
“Yeah, well, I don’t think you understand. This thing has been booked for over six months. We’ve got commitments here.”
“Mr. Brill, I don’t think you understand. This girl is suffering from extreme exhaustion and serious stomach distress brought on by exhaustion and stress.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that as long as she is my patient, she is not leaving this hospital for at least two weeks. You can expect her back at work in maybe a month. Would you like that in writing? I’ll be happy to send it along. And if she does go back any sooner, and if anything happens to her health as a result, I’m perfectly prepared to go on record that your network was forewarned.”
“Forewarned? Do you have any idea how much this is going to cost us to cancel this tour? We can’t just—”
DeBakey interrupted. “If you have any other questions, please feel free to call my office—collect—at any time.”
Red-faced with rage, Brill slammed the phone down and yelled at his assistant, who was waiting to find out if Dena would be on the early morning plane, “That son of a bitch says he’s gonna keep her there for two weeks. Just who the hell does he think he is?”
Thirty minutes later at an emergency meeting with the network lawyers, Brill was informed that Dr. DeBakey was exactly who he thought he was, one of the most powerful and respected doctors in the world. They knew they couldn’t buy him off and they were afraid to cross him, at least in public.
Death of a Cricket
Elmwood Springs, Missouri
February 8, 1976
When Macky and Norma Warren came in from church, their phone was ringing. Norma picked it up, her purse still hanging on her arm.
“Mrs. Macky Warren?”
“Yes?”
“Mrs. Warren, my name is Jonni Hartman and I work with network news public relations and I’m calling to let you know that your relative, Dena Nordstrom, is in the hospital here.”
Norma did not let her finish, put her hand over the receiver, and screamed at her husband. “Macky, I told you not to kill that cricket. Baby Girl is in the hospital!” She turned back to the phone. “Oh, my God … what’s the matter with her?”
“Mrs. Warren, I don’t want to alarm you, but—”
“Don’t tell me she’s been in an accident. Don’t tell me she’s been hurt; I can’t stand it. I’ll go to pieces. Here … you have to talk to my husband.”
She thrust the phone at Macky as if it were on fire.
Macky took the phone, while Norma wailed in the background, “If she’s dead, just don’t tell me, I can’t stand it. I knew something like this was going to happen.”
“Norma, be quiet. Hello, this is her husband. What’s going on?”
“Mr. Warren, this is Jonni Hartman and I didn’t want to alarm you. I just wanted to call and let you know Dena’s in the hospital but OK, in case you might hear something on the news. I’m here with her at the Houston, Texas, Medical Center and Dr. DeBakey has just examined her and said she had a pretty severe attack of gastroenteritis.”
Macky nodded. “I see. Is this considered life threatening?”
Norma wailed again. “Don’t say she’s dying!”
“Oh, no, Mr. Warren. It’s just a pretty severe stomachache as far as I can tell. The doctor says all she needs is a little rest.”
“I see.”
“If she’s dead”—Norma threw her hands up in the air—“I don’t want to know.”
Macky said, “Miss Hartman, could you hold on for a second?” He put his hand over the receiver. “Norma, she’s not dead. Now be quiet and let me talk to the woman!” Norma covered her mouth with her hands to keep herself quiet. “Miss Hartman, I can be there just as soon as I can get a plane out of here.”
“Mr. Warren, I really don’t think that’s necessary. I think it would be better to wait and see how long the doctor is going to keep her. She might be released by the time you get here.”
“I see. Well, how is she doing right now? Can we talk to her?”
Norma couldn’t control herself. “Is she asking for us? Macky, ask her if she wants to talk to us.”
“Mr. Warren, the doctor gave her something and she’s sleeping right now and from what I gather he does not want her disturbed. He put a No Visitors sign on her door. I’m not even allowed in.”
Macky nodded again. “I see. Wha
t about her family? Should we be there when she wakes up?”
Norma gasped and clutched her purse to her chest. “Mother of God, she’s in a coma, I knew it—”
“Norma, she’s fine. Now, sit down.”
“Mr. Warren, I really don’t want you and your wife to worry. She has the best doctor in the country, Michael E. DeBakey.”
Macky was impressed. “The heart transplant doctor?”
He anticipated Norma’s reaction and caught her just before she started to scream heart transplant. “No, Norma, it’s not her heart, that’s her doctor.”
“Her doctor? Her doctor has had a heart transplant?”
“Norma, he’s fine.”
Norma stood up. “Oh, I can’t stand it, Macky, you’re not asking the right questions. Give me the phone. Miss Hartman, this is Norma again. Is this doctor good? Because we have a doctor right here in town that we can get, one that’s in good health.”
Macky shook his head in disbelief and said in a quiet, steely voice, “Norma, give me the phone and go sit down.”
Reluctantly, she handed it back. “Well, you have to ask about these things.”
“Miss Hartman, we really appreciate your call and I would also appreciate it if you could call us tomorrow and let us know how she’s doing.”
Norma said, “Tomorrow? Tell her to call us in an hour; she could be dead by tomorrow.”
“I sure will, Mr. Warren, and really, she’s OK.”
Macky put the phone down and Norma grabbed for it but missed.
“Why did you hang up? We don’t know where she is.”
“Yes, we do. She’s at the Houston Medical Center.”
“Houston, Texas? Texas? What is she doing in Texas?”
“I don’t know, honey, but she’s OK now, just calm down.”
“Macky, I don’t know how you can stand there and be so calm. Baby Girl is lying up in a strange cowboy hospital with some sick doctor, my God, halfway across the country.”