In the Company of Legends

by Joan Kramer

  “Idiotic,” said Kate. “Don’t worry. I’m going to call them right now and tell them to send copies immediately. I need about five. How many do you want?”

  “Two—one for David and one for me.”

  “Fine,” she said.

  Our cassettes arrived by messenger that same afternoon.

  DH The following Monday was the PBS broadcast premiere of The Spencer Tracy Legacy: A Tribute by Katharine Hepburn. By the time Joan arrived at the office, there was a note waiting for her: “Robert Wagner called at 9:45 am. Please call him back.” It meant that he’d tried to reach us at 6:45 am his time in California.

  JK He answered the phone after two rings. I said, “Good morning. David and I received your message. Sorry we weren’t here when you called.”

  “I just wanted to wish you good luck for tonight. I’m going to host the evening here at KCET (the LA public television station).”

  I said, “You know, you’re really something. First, you agree to participate in the program for no money. Then you come to New York to appear at the Majestic. Now you’re going to introduce the show tonight on television. And I’ll bet you’ll be doing all the pledge breaks too.”

  “Yes, I am,” he said. “Because I really loved Spence. I don’t think you understand how important he was in my life. He treated me like a son, and I considered him my second father.”

  I then thanked him again and said I was sure he’d be responsible for raising a lot of money for public television.

  “No,” he said. “Not me. Your show will do that.”

  DH Joan had just hung up with Robert Wagner when Hepburn called, thanking us for the roses we’d sent to celebrate the premiere. A few days later, we also received a formal, hand-written note of appreciation from her. In it, she said, “I should be the one sending you flowers. You did a wonderful job. Congratulations and love. Kate.”

  JK and DH She later told us that, after the show aired, she received over fifteen hundred letters, and more were arriving every day. “I reply to most of them,” she said. “Especially if an eighty-year-old woman tells me I’ve somehow made a difference in her life. I guess I’ve become a saint. But I’ve learned to recognize the ones that just want my signature so they can turn around and sell it. I toss those letters in the garbage.”

  JK Then, in early June of that year, she invited us for tea in her garden. She was wearing a big surgical boot—not on the foot she’d almost lost, but on the other one.

  “What happened to you?” I asked.

  “I just wanted a matching pair,” she said with a laugh.

  “But you don’t seem to be limping.”

  “I don’t believe in limping. I just can’t walk. Falling apart.”

  Norah served tea, ice cream and her scrumptious lace cookies. Hepburn picked up one of them and crumbled it over each of our bowls filled with ice cream. “That’s the best way to eat them,” she said.

  Then she said, “I would have asked you to come earlier for lunch, but I just got out of the hospital an hour ago. The doctor didn’t want to release me, but I insisted because it’s June 10th, and I can’t be in a hospital on the anniversary of Spencer’s death.”

  Somehow, until that moment, we hadn’t realized the significance of the date, and were deeply touched that she wanted to share that afternoon with us.

  JK and DH In the years that followed, we would begin notes with, “Dear Kate,” and send gifts with enclosed cards that said, “For Kate.” But face to face, we still addressed her as “Miss Hepburn.” It just felt right to continue giving her that extra token of respect.

  David Heeley, Katharine Hepburn, and Joan Kramer.

  New York, 1986. Photograph by Len Tavares.

  Invitation to Emmy Awards.

  1986. Authors’ collection.

  CHAPTER TEN

  A Pink Hotel, A Yellow Box, and The Emmy Awards

  DH The Academy of Television Arts and Sciences announcement brought some very good news. The Spencer Tracy Legacy: A Tribute by Katharine Hepburn had received three Emmy nominations: one for me as director; one for John L. Miller as writer; and one for the show itself, which meant that Joan and I, as well as Hepburn, were nominees, along with our two executive producers, George Page of WNET and George Paris of MGM. The Nature series, which I produced and George Page hosted, was also nominated—in a different category, fortunately, so the shows were not competing with each other.

  JK I was, of course, thrilled, not just for myself and David, but for Katharine Hepburn and Susie Tracy, who had trusted us and never tried to exert any editorial control. This nod of approval from the Academy felt like icing on the cake, and it was very sweet indeed.

  The Awards ceremony at the Pasadena Civic Auditorium was in early September, and George Page suggested we all stay at the famous pink Beverly Hills Hotel. Located just north of Sunset Boulevard, it was—and still is—“old Hollywood.” Almost everyone who’s anyone has stayed there; some even lived there for a time, including Spencer Tracy himself; so maybe it would bring us good luck. Hepburn, Errol Flynn, and many other movie stars had been regulars on the tennis courts, and the hotel’s swimming pool has always been the place to be seen and noticed, especially when the loudspeaker pages a celebrity or wannabe, announcing that he or she has a call and should pick up one of the telephones strategically placed around the pool deck. It’s rumored that those eager for recognition make certain they get paged by giving a nice tip to the front-desk clerk.

  DH When Joan and I went to Los Angeles on business, we usually stayed at a hotel in West Hollywood; the price was reasonable and there were kitchens in all the rooms. When you’re working on a project from dawn to dusk, it’s a wonderful convenience to be able to make your own breakfast or late night snack instead of calling room service or going downstairs to the restaurant. So for us, staying at the luxurious Beverly Hills Hotel was a complete departure and a real treat.

  JK I wish I could remember why, but I volunteered to make all the hotel reservations, even though we had secretaries who could have done it.

  There would be six of us traveling from New York to LA and we needed a total of four hotel rooms: one for George Page and his partner, Dennis De Stefano; one for John Miller and his significant other, Carol Schneider; one for David; and one for me. However, we weren’t all on the same flight, which meant that we’d be arriving at the hotel at different times. I’d had many phone conversations with the reservations agent and received confirmation numbers for each room. I felt a little like a den mother organizing a camp outing, but I actually enjoyed making sure all the arrangements were in place for what promised to be an exciting weekend.

  It certainly lived up to the promise, but not quite in the way I had expected.

  DH Joan and I were the last of our group to arrive on the Friday before the Emmy Awards. It was about 3:30 pm and there was a message from George Page waiting for us at the front desk: “We’re at the pool. Join us when you get in. Made a reservation for dinner at 6:30 in the hotel dining room.”

  “Great,” I thought. “We’ve time to get some sun, take a shower and maybe a nap and then dress for dinner.”

  And that’s exactly the moment when things began to fall apart.

  The receptionist said, “Mr. and Mrs. Heeley, your room is ready.”

  I said, “I’m afraid there must be a mistake. Miss Kramer and I have separate rooms reserved. Here are the two confirmation numbers.”

  She began searching her computer. Then she said, “Mr. Heeley, here’s your key. A bellhop will help with your luggage.”

  JK I watched as David headed towards the elevator saying, “I’ll see you at the pool.”

  The receptionist was examining her computer screen again.

  “Miss Kramer, I’m sorry for the error, but the hotel is sold out. It’s going to take a few minutes to find you a room.”

  “But I made these reservations two months ago, and I called yesterday just to be sure the confirmation numbers were correct. So what do
you mean, you have to find a room for me?”

  My anger and frustration were barely under control. I was the one who had done all the advance leg work, and yet I was the one standing at the front desk next to my suitcase, while everyone else was sitting on lounge chairs at the pool.

  Finally, after what seemed an eternity, she said, “Here’s your key. I hope the room will be satisfactory.” I should have realized from that statement that something was a bit fishy, but I was just relieved to be led to the elevator.

  The bellhop opened the door to the room and my heart sank. It was about the size of a closet. If I stretched my arms out to the side, I would have been able to touch the walls. There was a twin-size bed on the left, a small dresser on the right, and a single chair near the window. The only walking space was a narrow path between the bed and the front of the dresser. The bathroom was tiny, with a shower stall, but no bathtub.

  I said to the bellhop, “This won’t do. Please wait while I call the front desk.” When the receptionist answered, I said, “I can’t stay in this room. It’s unacceptable.”

  She could hardly have been surprised. She said, “Okay. Come back downstairs. I’ll see what else I can find.”

  By then it was close to 4:30. I called David, who had just finished unpacking and was on his way to the pool.

  “How’s your room?” I asked him. “Is it small?”

  He said, “No, it’s quite large and very nice. How’s yours?”

  I wanted to kill him at that moment. “I don’t have one yet. They tried to give me one the size of a broom closet. Now I’m back at the front desk while they look for something a little larger, but the hotel is sold out for the weekend.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure they’ll find you a decent one. They have to. Come to the pool after you get settled.”

  By 5 o’clock, another key was handed to me. This time the room was large, bright, and beautifully decorated. But I heard a loud thumping sound and asked the bellhop where it was coming from. He went to the air conditioning unit under the window and began to fiddle with the controls. The steady thumping beat continued.

  “I think something’s wrong with this,” he told me. “It doesn’t seem to work, no matter what buttons I push.”

  I said, “I’m calling the front desk again. I can’t stay here with that noise.”

  Once again, I was told to come back downstairs. And once again, the clerk tried to sound reassuring. “We always have cancellations, so eventually we’ll get you a room.”

  She joined the list of people I wanted to murder. “Eventually?” I thought. “That could mean hours.”

  Finally, at about 5:30, I was led to a lovely room where everything was in working order. I had a splitting headache, was exhausted, hot, frustrated, stressed out, and furious. By the time I unpacked, I had to lie down. I called David and left a message that I’d be late for dinner and that everyone should start without me.

  DH When Joan walked into the dining room at about 7, she didn’t look at all happy.

  She said, “Well, you’ll all be glad to know I finally have a room, but I have a question for all the gentlemen at this table. What ever happened to chivalry? Did it ever occur to any of you to say, ‘Joan, you can have my room? I’ll be the one to wait for another one?’”

  I tried to calm her: “It would have just caused more confusion to start switching rooms once they’d been assigned. And the hotel had an obligation to make good on your reservation.”

  She didn’t buy it. “Right. But while you were getting a suntan, I was schlepping from one floor to another with the bellhop, with return trips to the front desk in between. My suitcase and I had a nice tour of the hotel.” And with that off her chest she said, “Have you ordered yet? I’m starving.”

  After an excellent dinner, we all went to our respective rooms. It was only about 8:30 Pacific time, but we were sinking fast; our bodies thought they were still in the Eastern time zone and we were feeling the three-hour difference.

  JK I’m always cold in hotel rooms with the air conditioning turned on, but it would’ve been too hot with it off. So I decided to look in the closet for another blanket. When I didn’t see one, I called the housekeeping department and was told to check the closed, double-door cupboard above the closet. Even standing on a chair, it was too high for me to reach, and while I could see a pillow, I couldn’t see a blanket. So I took a hanger, and used a sweeping motion to force the pillow to fall out and, along with it, a folded blanket.

  As I picked up the blanket, a box tumbled to the floor. It had a bright yellow cover with bold red type: CHINESE SEX KIT. “What on Earth is this?” I wondered. “And what’s it doing in this hotel?”

  Of course, curiosity overcame my shock. I had to see what was inside. It contained a number of partitions, all of which were empty, except one, which housed a round plastic sphere, and inside the sphere were a number of silver beads.

  DH When Joan and I met for breakfast, I noticed that she was carrying a plastic bag. After we’d ordered she said, “I have something to show you. It fell out of my closet last night when I pulled an extra blanket down.” She was careful to keep it hidden by the tablecloth so that no one else could see as she showed me the box and one compartment with the little beads inside.

  I couldn’t help myself. “Did you already use everything else from it?” I asked her. “And how come your room came equipped with a Chinese Sex Kit and mine didn’t? I’m going to call the front desk and complain.”

  JK “David, are you crazy? You can’t do that. It’s embarrassing. And there wasn’t anything but the container of beads in the box when it fell out of the cupboard.”

  He said, “So that’s your story, is it?”

  At that point, I’d been working with David for over eight years and he’d realized early on that I was the perfect victim for his British humor. To this day, he tells everyone that I’m the best “straight man” he’s ever met.

  I said, “I wonder who had my room before I did? And where on earth does someone buy this kind of thing? By the way, what are the little beads for?”

  “Use your imagination,” he answered. “And I’m sure it’s not hard to find a store that carries sex kits if you’d like to refill yours.”

  That evening, we were having dinner with two colleagues from New York. They picked us up in their rented car and as soon as David and I got into the back seat, they said, “We’re going to a great Chinese restaurant we’ve been to before.”

  I’d brought along the Chinese Sex Kit box in a plastic bag to show them.

  “That’s a coincidence,” I said. “Look what I gave David as a present today.”

  “Joan, you’re asking for trouble,” he warned.

  Undaunted, I took the box out of the bag. Without missing a beat, he said, “Joan had this Chinese Sex Kit, but by the time she gave it to me, it was empty.”

  For a flicker of a second, our friends looked back at me with new interest.

  DH When we reached the restaurant, Joan put the bag containing the box on the floor under the back seat. We handed over the car to the valet parking attendant, went into the restaurant and had a great meal. But when we were driving back to our hotel, one of our colleagues discovered that a camera he’d left in the glove compartment was missing. Almost simultaneously Joan said, “And the bag is missing too.”

  The parking attendant, who was Chinese, must have been excited by the treasures he found in our car.

  JK The following day, Sunday, was the Emmy ceremony. George Page called each of us that morning. “Let’s meet at the pool in a half-hour to discuss who’s going to say what if we win. There are a lot of us and we can’t go up on the stage without working out our acceptance speeches in advance.”

  DH It didn’t take long to agree what to say if we won, and then, to my surprise George said, “I’ve got to go take a shower and get dressed.”

  This was a big day for all of us. And I knew George well enough to realize he’d be nervous.
But it was only noon and the limousines we’d ordered weren’t picking us up until 4. (It’s well-known that driving to and from the Emmys in your own car is a mistake. Those who have tried it find themselves in a parking lot far away, followed by a long walk to the venue. Years before, when we were first nominated, friends advised us to use a limo service.)

  So I said, “George, we’ve got plenty of time. Why don’t we have lunch now? The ceremony will go on for hours and it’ll be a long time before we get to eat at the reception afterwards.”

  We all ordered sandwiches, and George gave the waiter seventy-five dollars before he even knew how much the tab would be. When the food arrived, he took a few bites, looked at his watch and said, “I really have to go to my room. There’s a lot to do. I need to take a shower and then get two people into tuxes and bow ties. Dennis never can put the studs into his shirt or tie his tie. It’s getting late.”

  It was catching. Joan was next. “He’s right. I have to wash my hair and put on makeup. I’d better go too.” I decided to try to be the calming voice. “It’s only 12:45. Relax. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s enjoy the sun. You don’t need three hours to get ready.”

  It almost worked. George lit another cigarette and Joan settled back in her chair. But five minutes later, he couldn’t contain himself any longer. “I’m going to the room now, Dennis. Give me fifteen minutes to take a shower and then you can take yours.”

  At first Joan looked as though she was about to get up too, but she managed to hold out a full twenty minutes more, until Dennis left. “I’m getting nervous,” she said, grabbing her towel. “I have to go now.”

  I knew they were antsy, but how could they possibly need three hours to get themselves together? John and Carol stayed until about 2:30, and I went to my room at 3. An hour was more than enough time for me.

  After a shower, I began to dress: the tuxedo shirt with its studs, the pants, the cummerbund, and finally the bow tie. It was now 3:30, still a half-hour before the cars would arrive, so I started leafing through a travel magazine to pass the time. By 3:45 I decided I should go downstairs to the lobby to be there when George came down.