Welcome to the World, Baby Girl!

My Hero

New York City

1973

Two weeks after the Hamilton piece ran, Dena and almost everyone else of any prominence in television, except Ira Wallace, attended the Heart Fund dinner at the Waldorf-Astoria. The Heart Fund man of the year was Howard Kingsley, the grand old man of news broadcasting and one of the last really great newsmen in the country. He was introduced as the man whose face and voice had become the one the country depended on in any crisis for the past thirty years, to calm us down, to reassure us that all was well, or to share our sorrow. That was certainly true for Dena; his face and voice were as familiar to her as if she had known him all her life.

Kingsley was now sixty-four years old and still a handsome man, distinguished for his thoughtfulness and balance, and beautifully spoken. His acceptance speech was gracious. He thanked his wife of forty years for sticking with him through thick and thin (“mostly thick”) and said that without her he most likely would have wound up selling insurance in Des Moines, Iowa. That she and his daughter, Anne, had always been “his safe harbor on the rocky and stormy sea of broadcasting.” After his short speech he received a five-minute standing ovation, and as professional and sophisticated as Dena thought she was, she was thrilled to be in the same room with him. As dinner went on she tried to figure out what he had that was so different from most of the TV people she had met. Then it came to her: integrity, that’s what it was. It wasn’t really anything he did or said but you just had the feeling that he was a decent and honorable man who could always be trusted to tell you the truth. He wasn’t really different than most men, but in the television news business, integrity was slowly becoming a rarity, more and more like a light in the dark. Dena looked over at his wife and daughter and felt that old feeling whenever she saw a father and a daughter, a sadness tinged with envy. All she had ever seen of her father was a photograph. She was even envious of Ira Wallace’s little girl. He might be one of the most despicable human beings she had ever met but at least he did adore his daughter.

After the dinner, as they were walking out, J.C. said, “By the way, we have an invitation to the reception for Kingsley upstairs.”

“What reception?”

“It’s a small, private reception that Jeanette Rockefeller is having for a few friends.” J.C. was a fund-raiser and knew a great many people. She did not want to go.

“Why not?”

“I won’t know any of them. I’m not a friend of his; he might think I’m too pushy or something.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be silly. Jeanette is a friend of mine. Come on.”

“You go and I’ll wait for you.”

But J.C. would not take no for an answer and five minutes later she found herself upstairs in a suite, at a party with the heads of all three networks, including Julian Amsley, the man who ran hers. She was horrified when he looked over and saw her. Oh, God, she thought, now he’s going to think I’m some gate-crasher, but he nodded pleasantly at her. After about thirty minutes of trying to hide in a corner, Dena watched Jeanette Rockefeller approach and start to pull everyone over to meet the guest of honor. Now Dena stood in line with J.C. and wanted to drop right through the floor. She watched as Howard Kingsley came closer, shaking each person’s hand and saying a few words, and at last when Dena was introduced, she had an almost uncontrollable desire to curtsy. But she managed to look calm and say, “Congratulations, sir, I enjoyed your speech.” Howard looked at her with a slight little smile, and with a nod of his head said, “Thank you very much, young lady.” As she started to move away he said, “Oh, by the way, Miss Nordstrom, I caught the Hamilton piece. Good work. Let’s have lunch sometime.”

Dena managed an “Oh, thank you,” just as the hostess steered forward another guest.

Had she heard right? Had he actually said, “Good work, let’s have lunch,” or was she hallucinating? Maybe she misunderstood; he had really said, “Bad work, hated it a bunch.” J.C. was still behind her and Dena grabbed him by the arm. “Did you hear him say, ‘Let’s have lunch’?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. I was standing right there.”

“Oh, my God … what do you think he wants?”

J.C. laughed. “What do you think he wants? He wants to tell you, you are the most talented and brilliant woman in New York.”

“Don’t be silly. Did he really say, ‘Good work’?”

“Yes.”

“What do you think that means?”

“It means he thought you did good work.”

“And he really said it?”

“Yes, Dena. Am I going to have to carry a tape recorder around to gather all these little kudos from now on?”

“No, it’s just that you never figure that someone like him would be watching me. I mean, I’m a silly little fill-in interviewer.”

When they got into the cab Dena said, “Oh, let’s don’t go home, I’m too excited to go home. Let’s go to Sardi’s.”

All the way across town, Dena kept talking. “I still can’t believe it. You know, J.C., I never told you but he’s been sort of a hero of mine.”

“You told me.”

“I did? Well, it really would have been enough just to go to the dinner—but to actually meet him …”

J.C. chuckled. He enjoyed seeing her excitement.

“Don’t laugh, J.C., it’s true. Haven’t you ever had someone you looked up to, wanted to be like?”

“Yes, Hugh Hefner.”

“Oh, you’re being silly. But really, aren’t you surprised one little bit that he was so nice?”

“No.”

“Why?”

“Because I already knew he wanted to meet you.”

“How?”

“He had to approve the guest list. And he said he especially wanted you there.”

Dena screamed, “J.C., I could just kill you. Why didn’t you tell me? Why did you let me make a fool of myself? I could have rehearsed something to say, instead of ‘Congratulations, I enjoyed your speech.’ What a dork! Why didn’t you warn me?”

“Because if I had told you, you would have been a nervous wreck and thrown up all over him.”

“What did he say? Did he say he wanted to meet me?”

“No, he said, ‘I’d enjoy meeting her.’ ”

“J.C., now this is serious. Tell me the exact words he used … don’t guess.”

“Dena, when he saw your name as a possible guest, he said to Jeanette, and I quote, ‘Yes, I would enjoy meeting her.’ ”

Later at Sardi’s bar, after she had four brandy alexanders, although actually less because she spilled two all over her dress, she looked at J.C. “I wonder what he meant by enjoy?”

When she got home she threw her dress down the garbage chute. It was expensive but she didn’t care. She was still on cloud nine. She took a bath and crawled into bed and tried to go to sleep but couldn’t. She wished she had someone to call, someone to tell. It was at times like these, when she was the happiest, that she missed her mother the most.