by Allen Cheney
“Tell me you’ve ever heard a more emotional performance than that one,” Emile said. “The vibrato! My heart’s still pulsating!”
With a casual shrug, Eileen turned her stout shoulders toward Fred and said with a dimpled smile, “Don’t let all this pomp and circumstance fool you. I’m a radio gal, Fred. My parents were vaudeville singers, for goodness’ sakes.”
Fred smiled, charmed by her humility.
“But look, if folks want to dress me up and pay me to sing, who am I to stop ’em?” Eileen rolled out a wholehearted laugh that made Fred feel as if he were in her family kitchen instead of a posh New York studio with two of the world’s most elite vocalists.
Emile stroked his trim mustache. “There’s nothing this woman can’t do. Live concerts, studio recordings, opera productions. Not to mention her jazz albums, hit television shows. The Grammy! CBS can’t get enough of her, I’ll tell you that. You name it, she’s proven herself!”
“I simply love to sing,” answered Eileen. “Anything. Everything. It makes me happy. And if sharing a song makes others happy too, then I’m all the better for it.”
Here Fred sat in a Sutton Place high-rise, in a space where money and fame seemed to be the norm, and yet the world’s premier opera soprano was just as grounded as the people he knew back in LaGrange. Maybe even more so. If an Irish girl who grew up in the world of vaudeville could perform at the Metropolitan Opera, then maybe, just maybe, Fred had a chance to make it big too.
As Eileen gathered her belongings and headed for the door, Fred dared to ask if she had any advice. Emile tilted his head as if he, too, wanted to hear her words of wisdom.
“Honestly, honey, I have no idea how I ended up in this position. Little bit of talent. Lot a bit of luck.” She shrugged as if her one-of-a-kind abilities were not such a big deal and that the countless hours of training were just par for the course. “But if nothing else, I suppose I’m proof that anyone can make it in this business.” She laughed again. Then she sighed and looked Fred in the eye. With a more serious tone, she added, “I guess my best advice would be that you can’t let success wreck you. That’s the trick. Keep your head clear. And leave it all on the stage. If you cheat an audience, they’ll never forgive you. So you give ’em all you got. Every time. No excuses.”
With that, she delivered motherly hugs to each of the men and was on her way.
“Wow,” Fred said, feeling the entire room deflate once Eileen had departed.
“You got that right,” Emile said. “Now aren’t you glad you followed up with me, son?”
Yes, Fred was more than glad he had followed up with Emile. This was the life Fred wanted. For the first time, he had been in the room with people who shared his creative drive and vision. This was the kind of place where ideas flowed freely, where no one would question the constant brainstorm of creativity that swirled within him.
This was the beginning of everything.
After a few audition run-throughs, a proper mentorship was established. Convinced he had found “the next big thing,” Emile agreed to take young Fred under his wing, teaching him everything he knew about the business. Just as Madame had arranged an even trade during Fred’s high school and college days, Emile recognized Fred’s talent and arranged to give him free lessons. In return, the young musician would work as an accompanist for Emile’s students.
The offer seemed too good to be true. Fred had barely planted his feet in New York and he was already signing on to accompany some of the world’s most accomplished vocalists during their private studio rehearsals. Surely, there had to be a catch. But Emile eased Fred’s suspicions, insisting, “It’s not complicated, Fred. I know talent when I see it. Give me a chance. Let’s see where this takes us.”
Emile quickly became the most trusted of companions. He expressed sincere care not only for Fred but for his family, welcoming Winnie and Allison into his home at times and giving Winnie a few vocal lessons too. With Emile’s steady guidance, Fred was accepted into the New York opera and theater scene, building a reputation as a well-liked and easy conversationalist who was said to exude an authentic down-home charm. The time the two men spent together often led to deep, personal conversations and musings on life. No topic was forbidden, and Fred began to rely on Emile as the father figure he’d always needed.
Back in Bernardsville, choir members became increasingly impressed by Fred’s uncanny ability to stretch their talents, pushing them to levels of performance they’d never imagined possible. Despite his frantic schedule, Fred never shorted them on time or attention, and he felt tremendous pride as their vocal skills improved dramatically.
As he played the organ and directed the choir, Fred took particular notice of a tenor named Mac, who exhibited great vocal strength. One day, after rehearsal, Fred commented to the minister about Mac’s musical gifts. “You do know who he is, don’t you?” The minister arched his brows, surprised to see Fred had no idea of Mac’s profession. “That’s F. L. McClure. Vice president of RCA Corporation.”
Fred already had met many powerful people by that time, but he still could not hide his surprise. He couldn’t believe the many coincidences he’d experienced since daring to leave Georgia. Doors seemed to be opening for him at every turn.
Not long after that conversation, Mac approached Fred with a cheerful handshake. “The choir has never sounded better, Fred. Glad you’re with us.”
“Ahh, well,”—Fred shrugged—“it’s easy when we’ve got this much talent to work with.”
“You’ve really got quite an ear. You know how to place people where they perform best. Get quality sound out of each of us. You have to be born with that kind of instinct. Can’t be taught.” Mac rolled his thumbs, pondering. “I’ve been thinking . . . you’d make a fine A&R man.”
Fred was too green to know what an A&R man (artist and repertoire producer) was exactly, but he wasn’t too naive to recognize a good opportunity when it came to him. While he certainly had no time to take on a new position at that moment, his friendship with Mac continued to develop as he pursued his studies, and every now and then Mac would shake Fred’s hand and say, “Let me know when you’re ready for that job at RCA.”
One Sunday in December 1963, Allison and Winnie traveled to Bernardsville to sing in the special Christmas cantata. With Fred at the helm, the choir had already grown exponentially, with as many as forty singers now filling the small loft. Winnie and Allison had attended as frequently as possible throughout the semester. The people there were always kind to them, welcoming the trio into their homes for lunch after morning services. The choir families had become a tight-knit group, with their many children forming close relationships as well.
This particular Sunday, Jack and Mimi Rush suggested they stay to see the Christmas lights, an annual delight for their two children who were close in age to five-year-old Allison. The cobblestone streets glistened beneath strings of glistening white bulbs, and while the sidewalks weren’t yet covered in snow, they held a magical holiday glow. The downtown shops had been draped in evergreen garlands, and candles illuminated nearly every windowsill.
“Reminds me of home,” Winnie said, admitting the swells of homesickness sometimes got the best of her. “Fred used to lead the music program for the schools there. He had them perform the most beautiful Christmas show. The parents loved it, didn’t they, Fred?”
Fred nodded but remained quiet. That life felt far removed from this one.
“So you and Fred met in college?” Mimi asked.
“We did,” Winnie said, telling them about their old radio show and Fred’s stellar reputation back in Georgia. “No one quite knew what to do with all his talent. He was a step above the rest of us, always.”
“We feel the same way,” Jack said with a smile.
Having never lived south of the Mason-Dixon Line, their hosts were intrigued, asking many questions about southern culture, food, and the landscape. When they learned that Winnie had left Columbus to attend LaGrange
College, they wanted to know more about the school.
“It wasn’t my first choice,” Winnie admitted. “I didn’t even want to go to college. I was ready to head straight to Broadway or Hollywood.” She laughed. “But Mother and Daddy had always emphasized the value of an education, and there was no way they were letting me leave home without it.”
“Sounds like my parents,” Mimi said, sharing stories of her own Ivy League studies.
As they made their way into a downtown café, Winnie followed Mimi to a back table where she gathered the kids with a story. “I’ll tell you something funny,” she began. “At LaGrange, we were all expected to dress for dinner. The girls had to wear heels and crinolines. It was top-notch.”
“What’s a crinolines?” Allison asked, claiming a chair near her friends.
Winnie laughed, “Oh, you know, sweetie. Those big slips that make my skirts stand out.”
Allison smiled. She’d spent many days playing dress-up with the silly hooped petticoats back in Columbus, but apparently she couldn’t imagine her mother wearing them to dinner every night.
“Anyway,” Winnie continued. “We had to wear those big, fancy crinolines and high heels, and we had to walk down a set of very steep stairs to go into the dining hall. At the foot of the steps was one of those waiter doors—you know the kind that swing both ways?”
The children nodded.
“So it was my first day, and I was feeling pretty upset that Mother and Daddy had left me. In LaGrange of all places. Plus, I know you probably won’t believe me, but I was shy. Very shy.”
Mimi’s brows lifted as if she definitely didn’t believe her.
“I had moved in a couple days before my roommate, so I had to go to dinner by myself. I was feeling very nervous as I walked down those stairs. Of course, you probably know what happened next.”
No one answered, but the kids’ eyes held Winnie’s, eager for the rest of the story.
“I tripped, of course. Fell against those swinging doors with a ridiculously loud crash. The doors went flying open, and out I came, rolling into the dining hall like a flop doll.”
Everyone around the table laughed, albeit politely.
“I was horrified, I tell you. There I sat on the dining room floor, my skirt all puffed out, and every eye right on me.”
Allison’s brow furrowed. “Then what happened?”
“No boys were allowed in the dining hall, thank goodness. You might think the girls would have rejected me from the start. But you know what happened instead? I looked up and saw a friend I had known since childhood. She walked over and helped me to her table, and she never left my side. That’s what’s special about the South. You kind of get used to the feeling that someone’s always looking out for you.”
“That would be a comfort,” Mimi said.
“Yes,” Winnie answered. “Yes, it was.”
Eighteen
Since moving to New York in September, Allison’s health had been failing. It all started with a weekend visit to the Statue of Liberty, where she led her father by the finger, pulling him up the narrow stairwell to take in the view from Lady Liberty’s crown. As Fred followed his five-year-old toward the top of the statue, her nose had begun to bleed. They were only about halfway up the stairs when, worried, Fred pulled his young daughter into his arms and carried her back to the ground level, fighting against the thick summer crowds. He assumed the higher altitude was affecting her sinus pressure, but then it happened again weeks later, when Allison rode on her father’s shoulders to see the city sights. She was laughing, listening to a jazz band play in the open air, when the blood began to flow.
In the months since, Allison had begun to suffer chronic sinus infections, with nosebleeds that were becoming worse by the day. Due to painful relapses of strep throat, she had taken numerous rounds of antibiotics, but nothing seemed to help.
Because Fred’s internship was unpaid and Winnie’s job was the primary income source for the family, it was difficult for her to leave work every time Allison needed extra care. Of course, skipping class was not an option for Fred either, so juggling their busy lives was becoming more complicated by the day. Winnie tried to stay positive, but she missed having her extended family nearby to lend a hand.
One frigid January day in 1964, a blizzard dropped more than a foot of snow on the city as Allison’s nose began to hemorrhage profusely. Winnie and Fred were at home due to snow closures, and both parents tried their best to stop the bleeding, but nothing worked. Not ice packs. Not pinching. Not warm towels. Nothing. Still at five years of age, months of illness had transformed Allison from a healthy and vibrant kindergartner to a pale, thin version of her former self. Her immune system had become weak and her body frail. Winnie’s worries intensified as her daughter now struggled to swallow even the smallest sips of water.
The seminary had a staff physician who had treated Allison’s infections in prior months. But when Fred called for help, the doctor explained that the snowdrifts were waist-deep and the entire city had come to a rare standstill. “I can’t get out tonight,” he insisted. “I’ll see her when the roads are cleared.”
Fred explained the dire situation, his voice cracking with intensity. He begged the doctor for assistance, fear shaping his words. Behind him, Winnie tried to comfort their daughter, swaying her in the rocking chair and singing sweet songs to try to ease their worries. But as the hours ticked away and the blood continued to spill, Winnie was beginning to panic. She pinched Allison’s wrist tenderly, distressed to see her child’s skin remain peaked, a sure sign of dehydration. “Try again, Fred. She’s got to see a doctor!”
Deep furrows formed across Fred’s brow. As the blood still streamed from his daughter’s nose, he could barely keep his composure. He was a sensitive soul who felt what she felt—fear, pain, exhaustion. And he could not bear knowing Allison was suffering.
He dialed again. This time, the doctor made it clear he did not want to be disturbed. “It’s just a nosebleed,” the man said in an even voice.
“No,” Fred argued. “It’s much worse than that. She’s lost a significant amount of blood and it’s not slowing. You know she’s been sick for months, and she’s running a high fever again. Burning hot.”
“Then take her to the hospital,” the doctor said. “Emergency room.”
As Fred dropped the receiver back in place, he gave Winnie a hopeless grimace.
Winnie’s lips drew tight and tears pooled in her eyes, a rare sign of distress from his optimistic partner. When he explained how rudely the doctor had responded, Winnie became livid.
“Unbelievable,” she said. “What kind of doctor would behave this way? Dr. Dillard would be over here to help us in a split second!”
The reality hit hard. They were a thousand miles from home, their daughter was in danger, and the doctor hired to help didn’t seem to care enough to do so.
Fred moved to the chair and pulled Allison into his arms. Her skin hot to the touch, her eyes sunken and dull, his little girl had become too weak to press the dish towel to her nose without assistance.
Many thoughts crossed Winnie’s mind as Fred tried unsuccessfully to phone for a cab. Finally, after several attempts, he hung up and looked out the window for at least the tenth time. With white-out conditions, not a living soul was seen. “Grab a coat,” Fred said as steadily as he could manage. “We’ll have to walk.”
Winnie gathered all the winter gear they had, hoping it would be enough to make it through the blizzard. Fred cradled Allison in his arms just as he’d done many times before, but this experience proved so much bleaker in the dark, with Allison’s eyes closed and her weak body lying limp against his chest as he carefully navigated the snow-packed sidewalks. Winnie kept close beside them, shadowing Fred’s steps and pulling the blood-soaked scarf around her daughter’s face as the wind gusts blasted them all. Now the parents’ fears were getting the best of them as the entire city seemed cloaked in an eerie, white silence, an ominous reminder that
despite the millions of people who called this place home, the worried young couple would be facing this challenge on their own.
St. Luke’s Hospital was just five blocks from the seminary, but by the time they reached the emergency room, their faces were numb and chapped. Winnie and Fred had lost all feeling in their damp feet, and Allison collapsed onto the registration desk, too spent to lift her head. Still, the medical staff did not call them back for treatment as the young couple had expected. Instead, Fred and Winnie took turns holding Allison in the waiting room, watching the dark hours creep by as her body fought a fever-induced sweat. They did not sleep at all, and their worries grew by the minute. They begged the admissions clerk for help, but the blizzard had left the unit short on workers, and while the stranger seemed sympathetic to their situation, she offered no solution.
It wasn’t until the following morning that a red-eyed intern finally examined Allison. By that time, she’d lost so much blood that her skin held little color. “We need to remove her tonsils,” the young surgeon explained, suggesting they schedule the operation for that very day.
Winnie was a wreck. “She’s so weak,” she insisted. “And isn’t it a bad idea to cut when there’s an infection?”
Fred, too, expressed concern, and as the intern’s words became somewhat erratic, Fred and Winnie began to lose confidence in his expertise. Allison was quite small for her age, even in her healthiest state. Aside from running a fever and losing blood for more than twenty-four hours, she hadn’t been able to eat and had barely accepted any fluids. As Winnie questioned the plan of treatment, the doctor’s opinion gradually shifted. Finally, he yielded. “I understand,” he said, agreeing to postpone the surgery and focus on healing the infection first.