Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

Hangover

New York City

April 1, 1973

When Dena Nordstrom opened her eyes she had that three-to-four-second grace period before she remembered who she was and where she was. Before her body announced its condition. And, as always after a night like last night, it started with a blinding, pounding headache, followed by a wave of nausea, and soon the agonizing cold sweats.

Slowly, one by one, the events of the previous evening came back to her. The evening had started out the way it usually did when she agreed to have a drink with J.C. After cocktails they had gone on to the Copenhagen on Fifty-eighth for dinner, slugging down God knows how many glasses of ice-cold aquavit and beer before and with the smorgasbord. She vaguely remembered insulting some Frenchman and walking over to the Brasserie for Irish coffee. She did recall that the sun was up by the time she got home, but at least she was in her own bed alone—J.C. had gone home, thank God. Then it hit her. J.C. What had she said to him? For all she knew they might very well be engaged again. And she’d have to think up a way to get out of it again. Always the same thing. He would say, “But you didn’t seem drunk. I asked you if you were drunk and you swore up and down that you were stone-cold sober and knew exactly what you were saying.” That was the problem. She never thought she was drunk and believed every word when she was saying it. Two weeks ago at a network party she had invited twenty people to her apartment for brunch the next day and then had to pay the doorman to tell each one that she had been called out of town because her grandmother had died. Not only could she not boil an egg, both her grandmothers had died years ago.

Dena tried to get up but the pain throbbing in her temples was so intense she saw stars. She slowly eased out of bed sideways holding her head. The room was as dark as a tomb and as she opened the door the light she had left on in the hallway almost blinded her. She made it to the bathroom and held on to the sink to keep from spinning around. She turned on the cold water but could not bend over without her head killing her so she cupped her hands and splashed water upward, toward her face. Her hands were shaking as she took two Alka-Seltzers, three Bayer aspirins, and a Valium. All she needed now was an ice-cold Coca-Cola and she might live.

She walked down the hall to the kitchen and when she got to the living room she stopped. J.C. was sound asleep on the couch.

Dena tiptoed back down the hall to the bathroom and drank water from the tap. She took a cold washcloth for her head, went in and quietly locked her bedroom door, praying to a God she didn’t believe in. Please make him wake up and go home … please. She got back in bed, turned her electric blanket up to high, and went back to sleep.

It was around 11:00 A.M. when Dena woke again and needed more aspirin. Now her stomach was hot and burning, screaming for carbohydrates. She quietly unlocked the bedroom door, tiptoed down the hall, and looked in the living room. She was delighted. J.C. had left. Hooray. She called the Carnegie Deli across the street and ordered two grilled cheese sandwiches, french fries, a chocolate shake, and two packs of Viceroys. While waiting, she walked out on the terrace. It was a cold, brown, dank day. The air was stale and humid. Traffic was snarled at Fifty-eighth and Sixth as usual and people were yelling at the top of their lungs and honking at one another. The loud clatter hurt her head so she went back inside, where the sound was muffled. Still, an occasional siren or a shrill horn would slip under the door and scream into her ears like a sharp knife, so she went into the kitchen to wait. A note J.C. had left was taped to her refrigerator. See you at eight for dinner.

She spoke to the note. “Oh, no, you won’t.”

After she had devoured all the food in less than five minutes, she went back to her bedroom, stepped over the clothes on the floor, and fell into bed with relief. She smiled to herself and thanked her lucky stars that this was only Saturday and she would be able to sleep until Monday morning. She closed her eyes for seconds—and then they flew open.

She had just remembered: the affiliates were in town for the NAB convention. Today was the day she was supposed to be guest of honor at their luncheon.

She moaned. “Oh, God … no, please don’t tell me I have to go to that luncheon, I’d rather be beaten to death with a baseball bat with nails on it. God, kill me in my bed, anything, please just let me lie here, don’t make me have to go to that luncheon … don’t make me have to get up and put my clothes on.”

She lay there for ten more minutes, debating whether or not she should try calling with a sudden attack of appendicitis, thinking of a serious enough ailment that could hit you on Saturday and be gone by Monday. God, she wished she had a baby; nothing better than a sick child, they’re good for all kinds of sudden ailments. As hard as she tried to convince herself that she had a right not to go, that the luncheon was just public relations for the network and not real work, she finally came to the conclusion that she had to go because if she didn’t she would feel so guilty she wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway. She always liked to be dependable. Especially when it could do her some good, too. The affiliates had come from all over the country and this luncheon was for many the highlight of their trip. Most of the men had brought their wives along just for this occasion, to meet Dena Nordstrom in person. Some had followed her career from that first big interview with ex-senator Bosley, and she had become known to more of them after she went network. She was popular with almost all the wives, who watched her morning show every day. So she crawled out of bed and went back in the bathroom to see if there was any hope of getting herself together. She looked in the mirror expecting the worst, but was pleasantly surprised at what she saw.

Through some lucky genetic quirk, Dena Nordstrom was a woman who happened to look especially wonderful when she had a hangover. Her blue eyes seemed to shine, there was a wholesome flush on her cheeks, and her lips looked sexy and slightly swollen (after smoking a thousand cigarettes). No matter how many times this had happened, she never ceased to be amazed.

At twelve-thirty in the Tavern on the Green, a roomful of excited wives and their affiliate husbands were trying to pretend they were not looking forward to this luncheon. They kept glancing at the door to see if she had arrived yet. At 12:57 all attempts at conversation stopped. Every eye was on the tall, stunning, blond woman standing at the door looking “fabulous,” as more than one wife put it, dressed in a camel cashmere suit, black turtleneck sweater, a pair of perfectly sized gold earrings, and wearing almost no makeup, so the wives would report to envious friends at home. There she was, in person, Dena Nordstrom, looking just like herself with that fresh, wholesome, open midwestern face of hers flashing that million-dollar smile.

As the entire room in one great mass leaned toward her, she stood at the podium microphone and apologized to everyone. “I’m so sorry I’m so late. Here I’ve been looking forward to this luncheon all year and wouldn’t you know it, just as I was walking out the door, the phone rang and it was my sister calling long distance all the way from Copenhagen to tell me she was in the emergency room with a broken ankle. It seems that last night she and her husband had gone to some party and had been served all these strong drinks she was not used to … anyhow, long story short, she had tripped over a pair of wooden shoes so I had to run and dig out all the insurance information and give it to her or they wouldn’t release her and they have a plane to catch. So please forgive me …”

She stopped there, rather than run on further. Why did all of her excuses somehow involve family? It wasn’t very original and besides, she didn’t have any family. But had she announced that she had just slaughtered six nuns with an ax, this crowd would have forgiven her. Afterward they rushed toward her, happily chattering away about how much prettier she was in person and wondering if they might have just one picture with her. What seemed like a hundred Instamatic flash cameras began snapping at her from all directions until she saw nothing but little white dots floating before her eyes. But she kept on smiling.