S3 E21 - The Celebrity by Catherine Hein: Episode 19, "The Planets Just Aren't That Popular"

With Neva in surgery and the waiting-room TV blaring early morning kids’ fare (Baby Huey, Captain Kangaroo), Wanda transforms into a trivia fanatic to settle her nerves and rattle Howard’s. But even as NBC’s chromatic peacock heralds a new age for the industry, she already knows deep down what’s next: Wanda, in living color, spotlit in a future sitcom that her emotional anchor from the B&W past will never see. 

CREDITS:

Catherine Hein's former life took her from 20 years in the entertainment industry to two years in a homeless women's shelter. That's where Wanda, the reigning spirit of this epic two-volume novel of early ‘60s Hollywood, was born.

Host Alan Rifkin's novels, essays and short stories of Los Angeles have been published widely. Learn more about him at www.alanrifkin.com.

Intro music is from the song "Slow," performed by Sally Dworsky. Written by Sally Dworsky and Chris Hickey. Available on iTunes, Spotify, Apple Music and all other streaming platforms. Closing credit music for Season 3 is performed by Ben Rifkin. Podcast art by Ryan Longnecker.

Publishing notes:  

Season Two’s novel, Sunland by Charlie Haas, has been released in print by Beck & Branch with a new title, The Current Fantasy ("Heart, soul, art, and the promise of Giant Vegetables... perhaps the last great untold chapter of the California Story." —Don Wallace).  Purchase on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Current-Fantasy-Charlie-Haas/dp/B0DJ1TJV82/ref=sr_1_1?dib=eyJ2IjoiMSJ9.tuTmk2PLbYrhl35vNF26hNKifzMVNLxUX5sbuZKxIrSaOzMPlYjB5Uys5Y1YQ2ED1dDgQKbH8KqXAWxZaLQCQTt-KHNyPXOjQoh_573_J3WAGlt6ZVeniX-tqsXmWnQ3.CsBj4yVK4jbIFxGRKRiHullCZ9rJF1jsg1L23qgiuZE&dib_tag=se&qid=1728574532&refinements=p_27%3ACharlie+Haas&s=books&sr=1-1

Season One’s novel, The Drift That Follows Will Be Gradual by Alan Rifkin, has been released in print by Open Books (“A delectable tour de force through our fractured culture from the 1980s through the 2010s—it is witty, wise, memorable, touching, by turns drop dead funny and piercingly moving.”—Richard Bausch). Purchase on Amazon: https://www.amazon.com/Drift-That-Follows-Will-Gradual/dp/1948598795?source=ps-sl-shoppingads-lpcontext&ref_=fplfs&psc=1&smid=ATVPDKIKX0DER

Season Three's novel, The Celebrity by Catherine Hein, is available for representation and print publication. DM the podcast for contact information. 

Transcript

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SPEAKER_01 0:00

Cool water on my face. I drink it up with my mic. Every poor myself.

SPEAKER_00 0:14

Welcome to the last week. I can't trace where it goes. We continue this week with Katherine Hyde reading from season three's original novel, The Celebrity. It imagines the Hollywood adventure of Honda Fleming. The tenacious calamity prone. Television co-host Fatal, who, in the spring of 1962, must face life without her closest ally, settle on one lover, conquer her eating disorder, and ace around a password in order to secure a coveted game show gig. If the world doesn't change too much first. Let's listen now to Catherine Hine, reading The Celebrity on The Last We Fake.

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The door slid open, and it revealed the most unwelcome, welcome sight in the world. A busy nurse's station surrounded by a rotunda of recessed darkened rooms with inset window panes, which allowed a view of the gleaming equipment, proud exemplars of technology's efforts to improve the lot of man. The result of all the extra Hollywood change poured into the place. Confusion over the name of Danny Thomas St. Jude's, the just opened children's facility in Memphis, created even more support for the Southern California hospital. There must be something to this idea of St. Jude having a hand in things, even when they appeared to be accidents. The Memphis hospital resulted from a promise Thomas made to St. Jude. In an impulsive, heaven-directed jest, he had agreed to erect a monument in gratitude for the saint's provision of a sign. As a young man, Thomas had been struggling just to keep his family alive and asked the saint of desperate situations to give him a clear sign whether he should go forward or just quit the entertainment business altogether. Which way should he go in life? He had to know. By the end of the year he was pulling in five biscuits at the 5100 Club in Chicago and had signed with William Morris. Later came the hugely successful Make Room for Daddy, along with a continuous string of packed house nightclub engagements. Ironically, the original bargain had been sign equals shrine, not make me an entertainer. I'll build you an institution. What if the saint had been faithful to give him a sign in the other direction? Go to work as a tailor or something. Thomas's part in that outcome might have amounted to nothing more than a city fountain. This saint of hopelessness was pretty shrewd. The way things played out, both these St. Jude hospitals got more bang for humanity out of this arrangement. Everyone ended up happy and had a story with a saint's name all over it. It was all quite extraordinary in theory, and wonderful how many adults and children would be helped, but no one really wants to be in a place like this on official business. A hospital that looks just like the Taj Mahal is still a hospital. Whatever wonders it has to offer are only measured in the few percentage points less discomfort than your untoward personal circumstance could dole out to you were it to be enacted at Cedars of Lebanon or Georgia Receiving or Good Sam for that matter. But like it or not, Bawanda here and now was that unwished for opportunity to see demonstrated in a hands-on application the smart and handsome array of machinery boasted about in every tedious, self-congratulatory St. Jude write-up over the last two years. There wasn't just the recent story of the caged capers, but the Times, Examiner, and all the local rags generously touted highlights of each and every fundraising fashion show, baked sale, and gala held in the hospital's honor. For all the hoopla about the new facility, it had no meaning until you stepped into it in your darkest hour. The Orange County Register in recent days published a picture of Chef Jeff Metzinger, formerly of Knott's Berry Farm, and Edna May MacDonald, a food service functionary, linked to no such esteemed prior appointment, standing proudly alongside the latest stainless steel mixers, cookers, and tables, which make the kitchen one of the most impressive departments of the hospital. Underneath the kitchen pair was featured a blow-up photo of Sister Mae Victor, X-ray supervisor, and her assistant Neil Lago, chief x-ray technician, as they look over the last word in equipment, meaning the latest thing, not just in radiograms but in all things hospital, high-low beds, the newer and more streamlined model than those auctioned off to the gold coin. Piped in oxygen, two-way intercom with nurses station's TV outlet, attractive pastel furniture color scheme, and modern functional furniture. And now in shockingly living color, here it all was, come to life just one flight up from the sleepy abandoned lobby. In the single moment's absorption of the whole well-ordered back teen aromatic hive of urgent action, the only comfort Wanda had was a glimpse of one of the sisters of Saint Joseph gliding past in a dark habit. Somewhere behind the circular nurse's desk, this young nun floated down the few paces of hall between a latest lord patient room and a vestibule of some other unknown medical purpose. Wanda focused all her attention on the nun, investing in the image all kinds of irrational belief, which she couldn't have explained to herself or anyone else, but she would not step off the elevator until the nun reemerged. Her presence somehow initiated for Wanda, her own personal scene director's call of action. She could now safely enter this next most dreaded scene of her life. I'm sorry, dear, but visiting hours are over. Do you have a child on the ward? Before the elevator doors had closed behind her, one of three nurses gathered at the desk eavesed Wanda into the first step by showing a merciful exceptions can be made side to things before Wanda could get too agitated by another obstacle. No, but I've been traveling all night. I'm looking for my grandmother, Niva Fleming. Sometimes she goes by Franklin. This is the pediatrics ward. Could you give us some direction then? said Howard. She's critical. Wanda took Howard's hand. I'll call Cecilie upstairs so you don't have to go traipsing around anymore. You look pretty beat. As the nurse dialed a number with a eraser end of a pencil, one of the nurses behind her whispered something into the other standing woman's ear. Wanda watched this interaction with curiosity. In the very next instant she was panicked and dizzy. She grabbed more solidly onto Howard's arm. As she swayed there she mumbled a word crackers. She dropped her purse to the ground and pawed frantically at its contents. You didn't eat, said Howard. Damn it, Wanda, what can I do? I don't know. Crackers. She made a mess at the edge of the elevator's door, throwing out crumbs, the now greasy autograph napkin, the farmer's market twin ink pen, lipstick tube, an earring that had lost its foam comfort pad, and a key ring until she found the Melba toast and jam and tore into both. Get a wheelchair, a voice from the nurse's station yelled. No, please, said Howard. Wanda waved her arm, shook her head. No, no, no wheelchair. The last thing she needed was to be the focus of medical analysis right now, but she needed a couple of more crackers, an apple, a glass of milk. Milk must be everywhere on the children's ward. Milk, she said, crumbs falling from the corners of her lips. She's just gone too long without eating, distraught about her grandmother. She'll be just fine. Do you have any milk? Howard asked. It works miracles with her. The three women looking back at Howard had two things in common their white high brimmed caps with tricorner navy accent and a peeved put out facial expression. You Hollywood folks just don't eat like the rest of us, said the former whisperer, repeating her get a wheelchair command to the younger nurse who also stood and stared. Possibly she was just now realizing that the collapsed, shorn headed figure in the hallway did look familiar, and furthermore, in verification of Hollywood personage, she seemed to be wearing an exclusive line of silk shirt. After looking Wanda over, the obedient staff walked reluctantly in the direction of a folded chair, leaning against the station's opening. Yet she was also compassionate enough to open a small icebox hidden under the counter and lift out a tiny compartment of formosa milk. Wanda was slightly revived by the scattershot handful of it was once fortifying grain before it found its way to this little cellophane packet as a wheat affiliate wafer, and able to stand back up. She was also so determined not to be placed in a wheelchair that she slid forward on the glossy tile like she was playing ice skating on thick woolen socks until she reached the chair-carrying nurse and the outstretched carton. Wanda knew she must not prove the milk's wonders that the chair be immediately returned to its place, and that be the end of that. Under no circumstances should she allow herself to be subjected to medical scrutiny of her own person, a hospital floor away from Neva on the night of her true crisis. She broke a fingernail trying to open the easy open spout, and made no effort to fish out the little pink tip of nail, which had fallen into the carton. She waved away the straw and chugged. I wonder if I could have another, she said after emptying the box. The nurse holding the straw looked up at her senior for direction. You need to have someone take a look at you, said the senior. Look, I'm good as new, Wanda said, pushing back the few strands of hair that still felt freely in an automatic gesture designed to express the vigor of a second wind. Well, you really should have someone take a look at you. Wanda surmised there would be no second milk unless she submitted to the vaguely referenced exam of some sort, so she forfeited the much needed protein. Bent former chef of Knott's Bury Farm would have to whip up something edible to be found in the cafeteria in a few hours. And then there was that drafty room with the vending machines. Maybe once Neva was squared away, Wanda could find her way back to that. I'll mention your concerns to my private doctor, Wanda said. Please tell me where I can find Mrs. Fleming, please. Howard was now halfway between the elevator and Wanda. He had scooped her purse and its contents into a hasty little pile with the edge of his loafer. He looked from one woman to the next and shifted on the balls of his feet, like he was ready to start or stop a fight, depending on which way things went. The nurse at the telephone console spoke up. Your grandmother is one floor up. Go see Julia and she will tell you the rest. What do you mean the rest? What's wrong? What's the rest? There shouldn't be any rest. She should be in a room waiting for her operation. Just go see Julia, Miss. She's waiting for you. Wanda felt tiny. She put her hand to her mouth like a little child, and bit on the edge of her index finger. She looked over at Howard but she couldn't move. Come on, Wanda, you're all right. She should let someone take a look at her, said the same nurse. She's just scared, said the one with a straw, who now went over to the ice box, pulled out another milk, and handed it to Wanda with a straw. Go on, dear, this is a good place. Your grandmother's going to be fine. Wanda nodded silently, accepted the milk, and walked over to Howard. The two of them bent down and put her purse back together. Howard nodded politely to the desk nurse, gently touched Wanda on the back, escorted her into the elevator and pushed three. Remind me to tell you my Saint Jude story, he said. Mm, she said. Do you want to hear it now? No. Okay, go ahead, she said. What is it? A friend of a friend. So it's not really your story? Yeah, it's mine. I believe it, so it's mine. Wanda was listening to his voice more than anything he said. She floated in the short uphill lift between the peed floor and whatever they were headed for now, the floor with no children and God knows what instead. So there was a swoon somewhere in New York City. She lived on the seventh floor of a building, and what she really wanted was a husband. She was ten years trying, dating, a good Catholic, going to church, but no one was right, or else they didn't stick around. All her sisters were married, but here she lived all alone in this little apartment, and she wondered what was wrong with her that she was not. She prayed to Saint Jude. She bought one of those statuettes and put it in the window. She prayed every day. Send me a husband, send me my mate. One afternoon on a hot day, the windows were open. She was cleaning and accidentally knocked over Saint Jude. The figurine fell out of the window and went down toward the street, but before it hit the ground it struck a guy on the head. The elevator door opened and Wanda saw that the third floor looked very different than the second. The lights were dimmed and the nurse's station was on the opposite end of the hall. She could only see a man looking through charts, but no one else, no Julia. And killed him, Wanda said, as she held the door open and stepped onto the floor. No, for some reason it didn't hurt him much, or else I don't remember that part. But he did look up to see where it came from, and saw the woman in the window. He decided to take the statue up to her place and meet her, and that was it. That was it? Yes, he was the one. They fell for each other then and there. He was the husband Saint Jude had sent her. And you believe that? Yes, why not? Because it's unbelievable. But it's Saint Jude. Isn't unbelievable the whole point of the saint? I have no idea. I believe in miracles, but that's just unbelievable, period. Where do you think this Julia is? Would you look how light it is? I've got to go in a few. Where is everybody, Wanda said? Hospitals are strange places. Remind me never to come back. What about your gallbladder or was that BS? I wish it was. Wanda and Howard walked toward the nurses' station and asked the man. Wanda decided he was an intern because she never saw any male nurses except in war pictures, and he looked too interested in what he was doing to be full fledged MD, if there was someone named Julia around. She should be right back, he said. He didn't look up from his chart drawer until he finished his sentence, but when he did he took in an eyeful of Wanda, squinted at her, and then grimaced. Wanda heard a door close in the hallway and saw another nun coming toward them. Wanda supposed she was a nursing sister. Her habit was a light blue, covered by a linen apron. Maybe she was just so afraid of what this Julia was about to say to her, but to Wanda everything about her seemed strange. The starched wimple under her headpiece pushed down at the strip of flesh above her brow line like a too tight swim cap. The only forgivable feature of those rubber bathing caps was their colorful rubber flower petals fastened off to the side. Even with Catalina's swimwear's best attempt to provide them with a fashion boost, no one looked attractive under the influence of a tightly banded headcap which dug into your forehead and gathered it up like pieces of crepe. And needless to say, this religious order's headpiece had no such decoration as face saving as that, not even an understated fleur de Lee, no decorative arts whatsoever, neither imitative of plant, animal, mineral, or otherwise. What's more, no hair showed anywhere, and the face underneath was without cosmetic adornment. Sister Julia was well she was longish all over, tall and thin, and Wanda had to outright forgive herself for seeing a resemblance between the nursing nun and a slightly feminized mister Potato Head. Wanda really couldn't help this observation. Her life was her looks. She was unused to seeing even an attractive woman without her cosmetic supports, but to have a face like a starved WC Fields, without the reddened alcohol affected veins around the nostrils, and do, well, less than nothing to correct it. That was new for her. You have to be Wanda. Welcome, my dear. Sister Julia held out her hand and walked toward the couple. She had an unusual voice, cool and refreshing. Her hands were also cool to the touch. She grasped Wanda's hands in hers and took Howard's hand in introduction. Your grandmother said you would come. So you've talked to her? Where is she? Can I see her? Not yet, dear. She's gone into surgery. What? Why? It's supposed to be scheduled for later. I thought you were waiting on a doctor from the naval base down south. We couldn't wait. Captain Schulter is on his way, but your grandmother went into respiratory arrest in the ambulance. There was no time. Wanda fell backward against Howard. She could only stare back at Julia as she put all the pieces of her evening together, the sensations of being spoken to, the strange inner questions and intimations of some other reality, and fit them into this new piece of information. Are you saying she was unconscious? How could you have spoken to her? I don't understand. She was fighting for breath. But she could still talk? She talked to you? What did she say? No, not when she got here. She was too weak. They took her to the OR as soon as she got here. Wanda reached a hand toward the sister as if to say help me up, though she had not fallen, unless you count the inch or two she had slipped backward into Howard's chest. Earlier this evening, I spoke to her on the telephone, before she had even left Santa Ana hospital. She asked me to try and find you, but I haven't had a chance until just now. But I see someone has found you for me. I'm so glad you made it. Where's everyone else? My family? I've just called her sister's house. Carol, is it? Yes. No one answers. That's because they're still asleep. But I'm surprised Carol even went home. She never leaves anything alone. Her husband, though. We all thought it would be later. Her husband snore is so loud they won't hear the phone. Wanda looked at Howard and she shook her head. Howard had had plenty of earfuls about Carol and the rest of the bunch over their on again, off again affair. He seemed to know his job was to smirk an appreciation of the continued failings of this poor slob of his step uncle, and the ramifications of his many ill mannerisms on almost every facet of all of their lives. I'll try again a little later, said Sister Julia. I'm afraid it will be a while before we know much. Let me show you to the waiting room where you'll be more comfortable. Did Wanda really want her family here? Babette? What about her? If you could just fix this one thing prayer on the street hotel porch. Wanda realized that there was only one time she actually wanted to see these people. Now, when the only evidence of her grandmother's life was a relationship to it. Wanda felt that standing here in the third floor surgical wing of St. Jude's Hospital, she was closing in on a universe without Neva Fleming. The idea of Aunt Carol, her Frank and even Babette authenticated Neva's existence. They might drop one of her trademark expressions. Holy smokes, great day in the morning, blue bloody blazing. Jesus might trip, turn, yawn, wink in a Fleming way, or do just about anything Wanda might see Neva in. They would certainly annoy her. It was impossible for any of them to do any one thing in a reasonable style, but anything was preferable to the standing on the edge of the earth, the last person left in a world where people hugged good morning, sang songs about the new day dawning, still drank orange juice out of three ounce glasses painted with orange blossoms and funny green leaves. Yes, please keep trying, Wanda said. The intern had stopped sifting through files and was swiftly rolling himself backward in a desk chair toward a telephone console at the other end of the station. He was like a kid playing on a grocery cart. When he turned to look at Wanda at the precise moment she looked over at him, he had to have seen the shock on her crumpled face, trying to compose itself with a nice dose of arrogance and annoyance. She wondered if she looked as horrified as she felt. She could tell nothing from his expression. She decided that as a man he was nothing special, and she wasn't sure what made her look over at him at all. Howard had his arm around Wanda, and neither one had moved from this position during the conversation with the nurse. Now Howard reached into his pocket and pulled out a handkerchief to wipe his nose for some reason, probably his allergies too. Howard often started in sneezing when the sun came up. An east facing window of the floor let in a long narrow beam of light. One to believe that Howard really could have overcome his allergies with the power of positive thinking, and he just didn't try hard enough. How could a little streak of light start your sinuses off just like that? She hated Howard's appearing handkerchief as a decided example of his lack of willpower to fight off what was no doubt a psychosomatic, made up effective mourning. And now she also wanted to tell the overly playful doctor to do something useful. It didn't matter if one, two, or fifty surgeons were in the operating room with Neva. This guy seemed to just be sitting there loafing. How dare he goof about in the stupid chair or even consider making what was obviously a non-emergency call? She hated the guy for even existing. If he had overheard even a word of their conversation, he should go immediately to see how he might be of help with an emergency operation, or at the very least, come closer to their circle and appear distressed, concerned and urgent right along with them. And if the bloke upon which seven years of medical education were wasted could not do anything helpful, he ought censor any recreational thinking and bow his head in prayer. She wished he would leave the area. How now she wanted to ask him, was she to get through another minute of this day with his pretend doctors in the same lobby? And what's more, how would she get through it in any event? Were he to vacate at once? In other words, please tell her what on God's earth was she going to do. Howard and Wanda followed mechanically as Julia led them back down the hall which she had emerged from. They came to a door with a window inside the frame. Their gracious charge nurse opened the door and escorted them in. The small room smelled of fresh paint. There were two plump leatherette love seats and a chair to choose from. No magazines, no papers, not a sign of life except for the television monitor up above. The TV was on, broadcasting the test pattern of nighttime. You should be comfortable in here. No one will disturb you, and I can tell the doctor you're here when he has something to report, said the sister. But what about you? Are you leaving? What if we need to find you? Wanda simultaneously wished for everyone in the universe to evaporate, and also never to leave her side. I'm on duty until eleven. I'll be nearby. Try not to worry, dear. These are fine doctors using a well developed technique. You can know your grandmother's in good hands. Julia seemed determined to stop here for some reason, like she was on a timer, and her good will was about to expire. She turned and closed the door behind her. She's dead, Wanda said. What are you talking about? Grandmother, her spirit's been communicating with me all night. Now I know why. She died in the ambulance. They're just not telling us. Wanda, you're scaring me. I can't leave you here alone if you're going to talk crazy like this. Her heart might still be beating through their machine, but she's not coming back. Wanda sat at the edge of one of the spotlessly clean lounges, unsettled, uncomfortable, with only the toe of her shoes hitting the floor. She felt ready to alight, wanted to. Whatever it was she was sure of was neither something she wanted to be true, nor knew how to accept as true, but that didn't change what she knew. It was such a struggle. She might know a thing, upset everyone, herself included by knowing it, and then on top of facing whatever truth that inner voice told her, she had to suffer the anger and disapproval of everyone around her for knowing it. But still she knew. She had somehow learned how to get through those moments by now, but it never got any easier. She felt that she was just stating a fact that she had had occasion to do a few times in her life, even when she couldn't know, shouldn't know the fact, and considering how everyone reacted to her, almost disbelieved that she did. But she did know, just like she did at O'Neill Park after the clock, what the true condition of the victim, the patient, was. Why wait on the doctor? She could just as well go tell them to let it all go. What if she has been communicating with you all night? I know you, Wanda. You two are pretty close, so I'll buy it. But you also believe anything you think will settle a thing, whether it's true or not. Your problem is you just can't stand the unknown. Well to how with you. Go to your fucking screen gems meeting. Not screen gems. Inga Dahlman, Ingrid Bergman, Kapuchin. Nope, none of those. Men with bad teeth and their stenographers. Right, like always, just leave me the fuck alone. What difference will it make now? There's no one left anyway. Wanda, don't raise your voice. This is a hospital. I know what the fuck it is. You're the one that thinks we're Disneyland, you big goofy. When we're really in hell. Wanda started to cry, countersubstantiating her message to get on. Get out of here. I can handle this myself. Wanda, come on. Howard crouched next to her. Come on, Wanda, it's going to be okay. No, it's not. She took his hand but kept crying. It's not not. He kept hold of her hand, took a seat next to her on the sofa and slid back, pulling her with him. He checked his watch and looked at her. What did he want her to do? Push him out the door? Pretty soon her family would show up. Maybe she'd be better off here by herself. Wait, wait a sec, he said. Go ahead, if you need to go, really. I don't know. I'll have to get a number on Nate and Ells. Tell them I'm not coming. It's an emergency. No, just go. You can make it for the second round of coffee. Wanda knew the overhead television must be set on a local channel. Their broadcast days often began an hour or two later than that of the networks. She stared abstractedly at the test pattern being transmitted over the station's signal. There was so little else to look at in the room that it pulled all of her attention. The tiny lounge had one small window, but that faced onto an adjoining exterior wall. Wanda stared up and concentrated on the geometric graph above her, the complex web of grids and circles, which had once enabled television's recording engineers to stabilize the picture by maintaining screen perspective and linearity lost during the day with a drift of service caused by overheated vacuum tubes was a dizzying matter on too close an inspection. Each chart and symbol on the test pattern once had a purpose in maintaining everything from frequency response and differential gain to contrast and aspect ratio. Not so needed anymore with the advances in technology that now supported color broadcasts, but still routinely used. The Indian head matrix always reminded Wanda of visiting her grandparents on trips from New York. She often found Hank falling asleep in front of the late night theater and remembered nagging him. Look, it's over, the Indian's on. While coaxing him to turn off the set, and for God's sake, go to bed. But sitting here now staring up at the monitor, all Wanda could focus on was the plumage of the Indian headdress at the top center of the mandala's inner circle. It reminded her of that ornamental figure etched into Bowtie's magnificent gold coin. Wanda went flush, remembering the pleasures of the gold coin, and was glad that Howard could not read her mind. Wait, Howard said. Wanda settled back in the extra high seat and kicked her ankles against the love seat base like a restless kid. Howard took her hand, and they sat there looking at the blank television. After a few minutes in the enclosed room they relaxed a little. Wanda forgot for a second what she was sitting for. She was just there. Maybe she was waiting for a family friend to arrive at Union Station, or sitting in stocking feet getting her poochies resold at the farmer's market stall. She was certainly not waiting to hear about Neva's valvectomy. Neither was it far from her mind. Margarita Sierra, that Cha Cha on Surfside Sick, died after heart surgery. She was still a baby. I know, I heard. Sad. It's amazing anyone's alive at all. That's the spirit, said Howard. Well think about it. The odds are not in anyone's favor. She wasn't even twenty five, dead. Sometimes it's fake. People are different. Neva's Neva. She can be repaired. You're making me hopeful. Wanda took Howard's arm and burrowed into his shoulder like a big cat. She closed her eyes and inhaled sweater laced with lintheric cologne and body odor. That's why I'm here. Now if you think me and my creaky gallbladder will live long enough, I'm going to go find a phone and try to call the restaurant. Howard looked more worried than he should. She wished she hadn't noticed it as she could only assume his anxiety at making the call involved Dorothy in some way. She didn't want him to get up as she was finally comfortable again. Howard's spot on the sofa was warm, and felt electrified by his good intentions to steal her morbidity from her and stow it away for a second. Why didn't you just call your secretary and tell her to do it? Because she worked late and she's coming in late. Wanda was peeved that her sleep mattered so much to him. What kind of boss was this? Like she didn't know. But this is an emergency. The emergency isn't that I don't know how to use the telephone. It's that I need to stay here with you and I am. Nice try. Howard walked out and Wanda didn't say anything more. The next thing she heard was a chorus of the star spangled banner. Cage J must have decided it was the morning. She looked up and saw the big H jack in the box held up by a harlequin that signaled the starting credits for Harvey tunes. She had dozed off when Howard left the room and didn't wake up when he returned. He was right next to her, still snoozing. How could he sleep through the loud circus music and the obnoxious Brooklyn accented duck struggling through a day in a baby Huey cartoon called Pest Pupil? I hate this cartoon, Wanda said, and crossed her arms in disgust. Yet she watched Rap as the overground diapered bird went into a cock eyed pink schoolhouse, showed up to the front of the room, and took his teacher a pumpkin instead of an apple. And if that wasn't enough of a gaff, he then chased away two well behaved and proper sized ducklings and took the seesaw all for himself. Wanda felt sorry for baby Huey. The whole gimmick was that he was too big and everything he did was too big. How was that his fault? Yes, he was also dumb, but his real sin was a huge baby duck butt. He had the duckling version of gigantism, apparently, and then the fat ass on top of it. Wanda identified with him. He hogged the attention, but he didn't mean to. He was just young, and he was always in trouble. So we went from thing to thing trying again. He was full of life. You couldn't take that away from him. But as soon as anyone, anyone being in the way of the cartoon world, a range of ducks resembling various samplings from the population as diverse yet recognizable as Albert Schweitzer and Shirley Temple saw him, they exclaimed, Baby Huey, and having his name called was never good news. I hate this cartoon, she said again, and this time Howard woke up. He wiped his face from forehead to chin and back, then from ear to ear. He squinted up at the screen. What time is it? he said. Look at your watch, seven thirty eight. Time for baby Huey to be expelled from school. Has the dock come in? Don't you think I would have said something? Don't have a cow, I'm just asking. No. Baby Huey, my favorite cartoon. Howard took up Wanda's position, slung back and staring at the television with a hypnotized gaze. You're joking, aren't you? No, David liked it so I like it. It reminds me of holding him on my lap. Oh that's very precious. I'll let you watch it then. I'm too tired to move anyway. I was thinking I should tell you something. It's kind of a secret. Did you reach anyone at the restaurant? Yes, Riv's team will be coming back to the office. If I miss them there I may lose a new client, but yes I reached them. Well just go for Christ's sake. Don't tell me that and then stay here. I didn't mean it that way. It's barely eight. They'll be there all day. That's not the secret. No, I Howard started in and Wanda stood up. Baby Huey had ended with a little Harvey tune sign off. Too tired or not, Wanda needed to feel in control of something, so she reached up for the dial. She couldn't reach it and there was no freestanding chair to pull over and stand on. Howard, couldn't you try? All right. Howard stood up. He was not a tall man, but his fingertips reached the dial. What do you want? he asked. Let's see what's on. Howard obligingly turned the dial and had to stretch his neck back awkwardly in order to see what programs he was flipping past. The Texan, the Today Show, Captain Kangaroo, Panorama Pacific, Tom Franson. Captain Kangaroo is cute, leave it there. Ooh, Howard said, grabbing his shoulder with his other arm. Damn it. He had put his arm down to turn to Wanda, and when he stretched it back to the difficult to reach television dial, he seemed to have pulled something. God damn it, my trick shoulder. On the TV screen, mister Greenjeans was just saying something about Bunny Rabbit's clever idea for unblocking the inkwell and captain's problematic pen. You're falling apart, old man, said Wanda. I got this playing football sixteen years ago. It has nothing to do with age. Are you still going to the athletic club? Who has time? Well, you're the one who's complaining about getting creaky. I'm not. Howard was vigorously rubbing his shoulder. Wanda had just flopped back on the lounge, and now the captain was trying out Bunny Rabbit's suggestion to pull out the removable inkwill and place it in a bowl of water when Wanda's and Howard's conversation was interrupted. What appeared to be one of the surgeons in scrubs and face mask dropped a chin, opened a door of their waiting room and walked outside. What appeared to be one of the surgeons in scrubs and face mask dropped a chin, opened a door to their waiting room and walked inside. Miss Fleming, he said. Wanda helped herself back up and nodded. Howard stuck out his hand. Howard Broden, Jorgensen. The doctor shook on his name. Your grandmother's out of danger, he said, looking at Wanda, but we still have a long road ahead. But she's still alive, said Wanda. Yes, she's fighting for life. We're going to go ahead with a valvectomy. We have every reason to believe she'll do well, but there's a much greater risk now after the arrest. I just wanted you to be prepared. It's going to be a while. Howard continued to massage his shoulder in a lackluster way, as if he were robot commando, battery winding down. Juanda clutched at his good arm to steady herself. Is the rest of the family here? asked the doctor. No, they weren't contacted when she went in. We all thought it would be later. I just drove down from the studio. Right, well I'm doctor Chris Jorgensen, part of the heart team. Let me tell you what we're trying to do, and you can explain it to them when they get here. The doctor's expectation that Wanda could ablely explain the details of an operation to her family with any degree of receptivity on their part was tragically unreasonable, but that there was no point in trying to explain. She knew she needed to listen even if the information would sooner issue from the four winds and from Wanda's mouth to Babette's ear. The surgeon reached into his scrubbed shirt pocket and pulled out one of those inadequate little pencils they give you at bowling alleys and banks. He patted his shirt pocket again, and then the equally flimsy pants pocket, and looked around the room for something to write on. Nothing. Wanda considered trying to be helpful and look in her purse for some paper. She remembered the jock penny napkin and froze. When it fell out of her purse on the second floor, it still had a purpose, was still an undelivered prize, but now the napkin, as well as its well wishes from stupid Don Wilson, and then the trading stamps, enough to fill Nava's S and H book and get the cafe stool. Wanda could not stand the thought of any of it. Neva's heart was pumping because of a machine. That's really not the same thing as being alive, doctor. What he was really letting her know is that Neva might never wake up. And now he wanted to draw a picture for her with a bowling pencil to illustrate an advancement in science, which they were all about to be an exciting part of. Expect a stupid little sketch, which you will now never be able to forget, because the whole thing is just not going to work. And when it's all over you will forever recall the way that on paper it should have. Wanda felt she already knew that her grandmother was dead. She felt herself begin to fall to the ground again, like there was just nothing holding her up in space. She moved back toward the sofa and helped herself into it. I'm sorry, she said. I can't. She hid her head in her hands to cry. The doctor stood there patiently and his face softened a little. He was less lecture, more fellow helpless person. Whether it was a studied move or just an inability to respond to the degree of pain in the room, the doctor's calmer and more inexpert behavior somehow eased things a bit. Now Howard had the helpfulness urge. He went searching on a scrap of paper on his person, by patting down his own pockets in an obligatory way. He tapped jacket, inside, outside, dress shirt and slacks, as if looking for the hollow in a wall. Out of his right front pants pocket came a matchbook. Wanda caught the big T on the cover. The matches were from Tiny Nailers, a twenty four hour place up on La Brea. Which girl had Howard taken with him there at all hours, before or after what event? Sorry, Howard said, extending a torn off cover to Dr. Jorgensen. It's all I have. The doctor smiled and took up the piece of cardboard to go to work with his patient report. Now that Mrs. Franklin is stable, we're going to attempt to replace the damaged mitral valve as originally planned. We've had a lot of success with this surgery, though it's still experimental. Captain Schulter will be joining us, navel surgeon, very experienced. I heard about him, wanted to try to reenter the conversation in a responsible way, but she sounded to her own ear very suspicious. I heard about him. She could have been the sour grape's wife on Perry Mason's witness stand. It came out all wrong. I heard he was driving up, she repeated, due to the Trying to emit a greater sense of hopefulness, but with little success. Wanda didn't believe for a second that this Captain Schulter would get in there in time, considering it was already too late. So Woody was a surgical heart specialist. He wasn't Jesus the Christ. The doc was undeterred by Wanda, though she was used to thinking her every utterance created an effect on things, especially male things. She could accept it as a good sign that this man was more determined to present his little demonstration and get back to work saving Neva than to be distracted by anything she might say or do about it. Jorgensen took a seat next to Wanda on the divan and put pencil and paper to his knee. Howard moved in closer but remained standing. Our strategy is to replace the damaged valve by implanting the prosthetic valve, known as the Harkin Ball and Cage valve. Let me show you. He sketched out something that looked like an upside down bolero toy, a frame with a ping pong ball in it. It looked something like this, somewhat like a birdcage. Birdcage. Wanda looked up at Howard. Birdcage, she wanted to say. See what I mean? I was right. I knew it all along. Don't you see the total coincidence with the canary now? She expected he would confirm the terrible connection, and she could finally be justified in being sure that she knew what she had wished she hadn't. But Howard was far from doing that. His head was down, and his eyes were narrowed to the point of being barely nearly closed. The technical talk had to be bringing back some memories of Dave's death. As the doctor droned on, Wanda watched Howard cross his arms and hugged him tight to his chest. He seemed to be fighting the urge to plug up his ears with his fingers, or maybe just walk out until the talk was over. There's often an audible click whenever the blood pressure pushes the silicone ball up to the titanium cage. He used a pencil, like a pointer, to illustrate ball up, ball down. Just like a bird, said Wanda, in a cold tone with little inflection. You could say that. Yes, a little like that. I want you to know that there is every possible chance that the prosthetic valve may be able to restore misses Franklin's heart function. But Miss Fleming, you also have to remember that your grandmother was very sick when she came in here tonight. There are still no guarantees. No, doctor. It's a race against time now, so let me go and we'll talk to you later. Doctor, she said, This is the most important person in my world. Don't make a mistake. We'll do everything we can, he said, handing her the matchbook drawing, which would have to serve as her stamp of authority when the flabbergasted family arrived. He got up to leave and Howard offered another business like handshake. Though it was no doubt prompted by his great relief that the doctor was finally leaving the room, it also seemed to convince him that he was now on equal footing with this new and very awful possibility of unplanned surgical outcome. Wanda had no such mannerism to resteady her nerves. She remained where she was, and fell even further into the Naugahyde cushions of the lounge. She was a cartoon character herself, a mere outline brought to life with some rubbery antics thought up by the sketch artist, in this case the spreading of her very watery limbs in every direction. It was the exact right pose. Wanda tune had just crashed head into the hard comic strip wall. And everyone knows that cartoon characters don't die after a collision. They melt down into flattened pancakes and waited out on the other side of the wall, or laid out on the waiting room chair. And as usual, during the reincarnating phase of tune character, temporarily reduced to its penciled in form, there is, as there always was in Wanda's life, a colorful soundtrack playing. It seemed that the Peppy music was vital to reviving the deflated subject. In the case of Wanda's revivification, background was a newly audible voice from the overhead monitor. The television's volume had not been altered. The shock of circumstance had deafened Wanda to everything but the doctor's voice. Now her universal hearing returned. Actually it was two voices she now heard, that of a very young boy and an uncuous male announcer. They traded lines with mounting fervor as they sought to demonstrate the exciting power of ideal toys countdown in a one-minute commercial spot. Three, two, one, blast off. Atlas moving into position. There she goes. It's a real electronic missile base. You sit at the controls, you count down, you blast off. The ideal countdown comes complete with moon missile and lunar probe. Only $1298. It's a wonderful toy. Get it wherever good toys are sold. This was followed by a second ideal commercial for the Flatsea doll. Its entire selling point was its being flat. What subterranean fear or distaste for roundness had recently penetrated the minds of the young that this should have such an appeal? From the flatsey's description and its focus on her capacity to disappear at will, she might just as well have been sold as an espionage doll. She'll hide in your hand, slip into a book, you never know where she'll go. She comes in her own picture frame, but she can come out and play. Billy Flatsy has a flat house. Candy Flatsy has a flat table and chairs. Wanda stared at the three inch dolls being manipulated across the screen, and wondered what slipping into a book would feel like. She looked over at Howard. His arms were folded in front of his chest again, and he was still looking toward the door toward the hall. He must also have been listening to the TV and its entertaining patter. Why don't I just turn this off? he said. Your shoulder. Don't mess with it again, she said. I'll use the other arm. No, I kind of like it on. Just come and sit down next to me. The captain was back and so was dancing bear. The large Ursine puppet shuffled around, has green jeans in the captain, kept some white bunnies on good behavior atop the treasure house counter. Look how gentle he is with them, said Wanda, caught for a second by a thought drifting by. Wanda Fleming is the new Sherry Lewis, but with real animals instead of a sappy lamp and trilliquist toy. The baggy pocket captain fed a mama rabbit a whole carrot, patting the skittish creature in a reassuring way. How sat down and took Wanda's hand with no comment on the Franciscan gifts of the kids show host. I have to hand it to you, baby. You're holding up amazing. I'm proud of you. Wanda was fixed on the screen. The magic drawing board gave way to a trick film, featuring the white gloves of a magician against a black background. It was actually creepy the way the hands with no arms tossed around a baton and top hat. All Wanda could focus on was the macabre. What horrible accident took its arms? Where was the rest of its body? The decapitated being clapped its gloved hands together, and then presto, more white bunnies. Those came out safe and sound, and at least the pick was silent, the simple, predictable movements easy to become entranced by. Why are we so interested in invisible men anyway? That's what this insert flick reminded her of. The invisible man for kids. There were suddenly these flatsies with their magic ability to hide at will. Stealth was in. Maybe we're all looking for ways to disappear or stow our bodies somewhere during an atomic attack. Good luck it will only work for you if you're a product of telly trickery. Mm, she finally answered Howard, unable to come up with anything better. Juanda glanced over at him to try and make up for her total lack of interest in anything but the TV. You don't look too good yourself, she said. I haven't eaten since yesterday. I need to go find the cafeteria. Come with me. No, I can't move. Come on. No. What do you want then? I'll pick you up something. Magician Hands was interrupted by a commercial spot advertising tonight's Benny episode, with none other than Jules Linden as guest star. They were treated to her sultry eight seconds of Fly Me to the Moon as beguilement. Did you ever think about how many song titles have the word moon in them? Wanda, what do you want from the cafeteria? Think of them. Fly me to the moon, moon river, blue moon by the light of the silvery paper moon? Yes, there are. Howard stood up, got out his wallet, and counted his bills. What about the sun? What about it? Song titles on the sunny side of the street, a place in the sun, please, mister Sun, keep your sunny side up. Beautiful Sunday, Canadian sunset, Howard said. Yes, those are good. Hurry, hurry, think, there have to be more. With no warning she was conducting lightning round on her own made up quiz show. Honey no, I've got to get some grub. Come down with me. No, I don't want to move. Wait, more sun songs. Either from a fugue state or being her usual brand of mentally ambidextrous, she pushed down without taking her eyes from the screen. There was a new kangaroo film feature, Perkimer the Homely Doll. A rubbery faced Sterling Holloway, whose upward sprout of hair gave him the appearance of a tall dried weed, more than a child's doll, soaked in the shelter of his toy shop home, and again, thanks to the lack of dialogue, offered Wanda the chance to remain transfixed by the built-in set. More stunsung, she said again. She had replaced her frenzied tone with a more distracted one. Wanda stared at Herkimer. She twitched and her muscles moved ever so gently as she decided to learn the moves of his character. It was no different than memorizing a dance routine. You just had to concentrate. Concentrate, take in every motion. The upward flip of the hands as the live doll passed a stack of raggedy hands, and the enlarged eyes as he moved closer to the front door, the door to the world outside the toy store. Well tell me what you want to eat, then, said Howard. I'm going to bring you something anyway, and if you don't tell me what you want, then you might not like what I bring you. That's fine, I don't care at all. Wanda honey, please. Okay, it's easy. I don't want anything, so it doesn't matter. You don't until I start eating, and then you always want that. Cereal or something, an egg, I don't care, whatever you want. Who could eat? Sometimes it was easier pretending to be one of the same species, just to get along. Wanda had her head turned down and off to the side, ear over shoulder, still training herself to master Hercomber trying the door handle business. All right, be that way. But don't think I'll share a bottom of my food. Not hungry, she said. Wanda, would you look at me? She didn't. Okay, I'm going. I'll be back in a few. Wait, she said. Howard stopped then and had to turn in the doorway, bracing his good shoulder against the automatic door. Wanda shifted in the seat and looked over at him like she had never seen him before. It was that way sometimes when she moved in and out of a character. More sun titles, she said. Oh for Christ's sake, Wanda, forget about it, would you? Can't you see I'm starving? Okay, then planets, planets on. Wanda had put him through this before. It was another of her diehard self-soothing techniques. Explore some trivial open-ended topic ad infinitum, ad nauseum for everyone but she. When a situation as big as eternity gripped you, and the only way to get your leverage was to look in the other direction. Her voice would go faster and faster if she thought she was losing you in the game. This is how she demanded you stay with her, as if failing to do so would send her over the brink. Simple, there are none. No planet songs. We can stop now. I'm stumped. Venus. Okay, right, you're right. Venus. More, more. There aren't any more, really. That is the one and only planet song, and you guessed it. Can we stop now? Unless you add in classical. Oh jeez, no. No wonder there are no more songs. The planets are just not popular, said Howard. What about Pluto? There are no Pluto songs. Wanda stood up and looked at him in the eye. He seemed so much taller than usual. There have to be. What about the Pluto dog? Disney? Does he have a song? He doesn't. Wanda started barking softly in a melodious way. She made a face that felt to her like big nosed dog, as she barked sang. There's a Pluto song, she said. She laughed at herself like an inane drunk. Howard was still holding the door open with his body when Sister Julia came by. Howard moved aside so she could enter. That's okay, the matron said to Howard. She peeked her head in so that she could look at Wanda. I thought I heard something and I just wanted to see how you were. Did the doctor come in and speak with you? Wanda put her hand up to cover her mouth. Speak with her about what? Did she mean Jorgensen from before? Was something wrong? She couldn't seem to say anything back. Yes, he was here, said Howard. How did Howard know what sister meant if she didn't? What if he was wrong? Fine, said the sister. I'm back at the station now if you need me. Thank you, said Howard, smiling in an obnoxious way. What was she talking about? Did we miss something? What doctor? Wanda trusted Howard where she couldn't even open her mouth to the sister nurse. You know, the surgeon. Howard watched Wanda carefully. She knew she was supposed to reassure him. Yes, of course, but she didn't feel like it. Wasn't he being a bit smug for someone so lily livered about hospitals himself? Grandmother told me about a song. Wanda changed the subject. I was too young to remember it, but she talked about seeing it in a Christmas film, Remember the Night. I don't know how I keep up with you, Wanda. No, listen. I already know what you're going to say. This started with that Sterling Holloway bit. My wife and I saw it on TV after David. We both cried over the song. Sing it, Wanda said very strangely, even for her. Wanda, come on. Sing it, Howard, sing it. I can't sing shit, Wanda. I don't sing. You know I can't sing. Sing it. Wanda raised her voice and it broke into a sob. Sing it, please. Wanda please, shush, be quiet. Please, please, please sing it for me. Grandmother sang. Wanda stopped to cry, blew her nose on her sleeve, and looked up again. Sing, sing. Grandmother. God Wanda, I can't I can't sing it. You sing, you sing it for me. No, you sing it to me. Howard took in a big breath, shuffled his feet and said nothing. Here, wait, I'll do it with you, okay? You start. Howard took in a big breath, shuffled his feet and said nothing. Here, wait, I'll do it with you, okay? You start. Howard, still propping the door open, now with his hip, glared at Wanda and gritted his teeth. He looked toward the hospital hallway, tried to slam the spring door closed faster than it could go, looked back over at her, and then came out with a somewhat musical When you come to the end of a perfect day. Wanda took over after a healthy effort by Howard to sing the first two lines. And the dear hearts have to part. The end of a perfect day. Near the end of a journey, too, leaves a thought that is big and strong, with a wish that is kind and true. For memory has painted this perfect day with colors that never fade, and we find at the end of a perfect day the soul of a friend we've made. When a dear one has to fall. She finished and was still. Her body had frozen in position as she sang the last three lines. She looked away from How. Her face was wet, but now she had no more tears. She needed absolute quiet to think about the words. Think isn't even the right way to say it. Actually she felt something from them as she sang, something odd somewhere within the words, something otherworldly, as if she weren't the only one singing them. What was going on? She could only sit there and stare, trying to understand what she was feeling. It wasn't sadness, not anymore. It was more like she had split in two and one part of her still sang to another part of her from a great distance away. Wanda, are you okay? Wanda didn't answer him. She had to think. She sat back down on the sofa and closed her eyes. She really just had to think right now. Okay, sweet? Howard slipped out and let the waiting room door close softly behind him. Wanda continued to sit there, eyes closed, searching her heart to find an inner pathway to the faraway place where the end of the perfect day still seemed audible. After all her mental delving, the search had led to unconsciousness. She awakened minutes later to the closing credits of Captain Kangaroo. Wanda glanced up blurry eyed as the production names rolled. Who knew Mr. Greenjean's name was Hugh Branham? He looked like a Hugh. The nursery bell's melody that meant farewell to Captain in the Treasure House gave way to a product announcer's artificially raised voice. Wanda tried to get her mind back, watching the commercial for Reynolds' magic aluminum foil. Evidently the broadcasters got together and decided the children's hour was over at 9 a.m. It was time now for adult themes like keeping your bread fresh with evermore applications of the latest trends in modern technology. The commercial started out with a Kaiser aluminum card announcing its dazzling company logo, an embellished angular-looking star, one on a variation of every other aerospace plant and rocket manufacturer's depiction of a star, as if there was a heavenly body pointing us to the future, as surely as the star of Bethlehem guided the shepherds to the holy child. This told you that the upcoming kitchen improvement item was as breathtakingly durable as any outer space-worthy product has to be. To perform right alongside the window flaps, screws, springs, and whatever other hardware comprises today's rocket under the brutal atmospheric pressures imposed by space travel. Their metal foil would simply have to appear magic in your nothing special to speak of worldside kitchen. Maybe she was just hungry for some toast, but Wanda wanted to go and get herself some of this magic foil right now. Yes, more and more bread like many other products are sealed in Kaiser Aluminum Foil. Generic Jr. smiles as he makes himself a peanut butter sandwich on top of a spotless counter after carefully unwrapping the end of a loaf mark Bermuda rye. Flavorful aroma-filled bread, protected by papertight kaiser aluminum foil, to sell better and taste better. Stop into your grocer's tomorrow. The desperate desire for buttered, slightly burnt toast gave way to the thought of plates and napkins. Wanda's mind was even more porous than usual. So was it the pictures of bread or the stack of serviettes on the fake kitchen countertop that brought back the thought of the sacred napkin? Wanda still carried for Juanda after surgery. No matter. The horrible feeling returned. The tragedy that this hard won souvenir gift for Niva would what would happen with it now? She absolutely had to get it into Niva's hands. It almost seemed like grandmother already knew about the penny napkin and was expecting it. If Juanda didn't deliver it now, that would just be another disappointment that she had. no doubt, caused by some one of her ill conceived actions or another. And maybe it was the chronic guilt which brought this up. But come to think of it, where the hell was the rest of her family? Even with no hospital phone call, they should have been here by now. Did they know something she didn't? Were they somewhere else in the hospital? That made more sense. They had to be here somewhere. It's not that Wanda actually wanted to see them. There was nothing she could say she actually wanted right now, except for that toast a minute ago, other than the whole situation to vanish her with it. And there were some good things about her family's absence. For one thing, no babette could mean that God was listening back there at the hotel stage front. But still she couldn't get over the idea that they must really be her somewhere, and that they too, like Sister Julia before, knew something she didn't. Their family's constant harping that Wanda could never do a single right, responsible or proper thing had taken greater hold of her, as it always did when she returned to their local environs. That she was the only one in the know about a family crisis, in the know and on the scene was too much to believe. Someone must have gotten word to Carol and the rest, and yes, somewhere else in the hospital, in some room even closer to surgery, having gotten even later word on Eva's progress than she had. This started to seem more and more credible the more she considered it. The need to have the competitive edge in even this situation roused her. She got up abruptly, grabbed her clutch and went toward the door to find sister. As she reached out for the door's handle, she turned back and took one long last look at the television screen. A new show, yours for a song Wanda hesitated there in order to watch Bert Parks wave his arms around an MC's podium embellished with metallic musical notes. His suit was so shiny. Some of the AM hosts wore tuxedos but it wasn't standard. Wanda thought the jacket simply looked cheap and wondered what color it was must be navy. What an odd choice she watched for a little longer, fascinated by Park's introduction of the four contestants. She wondered for a sec if the suit were not it was a slight possibility chocolate brown. Wanda had the film insider's ability to gauge the actual color of an object based on how it appeared on a black and white screen. In fact that season this was fast becoming an enviable skill. In most every social circle of America showing off your color know how about a popular show's defining visuals was the latest way to brag, even if you were completely wrong, that you talked of it expertly tended to support your claim that you had one of the new RCA sets and could well be the first and only one on your block to have one. That meant you saw the Flintstones, the US Open and the wonderful world of Disney in color this year. And now because you know firsthand that Betty Revel's dress was sky blue always she never changed her dress. Cave women had scant wardrobes apparently you could guess to impress all the other shades you now recognize when you were stuck in front of your neighbor's black and white you looked like the big shot and your neighbor felt like a schlamoel. As Wanda mused on the deficiencies of song's art director to have even unwittingly gone along with this not right suit for the host in order to delay her own moment's pain she experienced a precognitive flash. Reality inserted itself into her little respite. Wanda saw herself in imagination as she would appear on screen not only on screen but in color, doing a comic pan in the middle of a sprawling family living room set. She knew that this was not a theatrical film she was mentally viewing. Something opaque in the picture quality told her this was videotape. Her new show perhaps? She was excited to see herself in color. So far even though other networks beside NBC filmed a handful of primetime shows in color, they did not broadcast them that way. Business heads were just too reluctant to inadvertently promote their competition by using RCA's color cameras. Some local stations broke rank broadcasting some special events color cast, the Rose Parade for instance and network affiliates got good ratings with color syndication. Day talk was not color, but Leonard had told Wanda about his particular confab with execs, in which he pitched a knockoff of KTSP Minneapolis's wildly popular treasure hunt. If that came back no go, Leonard bet her at Wanda's choice day talk segment if he could not get the suits to assign Speck on one of those new religious quizzes. Strange but true, but in both the North and southeast color broadcast Quiz a Catholic ran early Sunday evenings, pulling in numbers close to the network news, it was a kind of just desserts proof that the only thing holding back full range color besides longtime players fears about their appearance was a shot in the foot attempt by the networks to restrict scientific advancement. If a show about matching up hopes in their council numbers was as popular as Huntley Brinkley just because the anxious guessing took place in color, it was pretty obvious that trying to hold back progress would backfire sooner or later. All Wanda could see in her dream show was that at some future date these obstacles were to have been surmounted. To her mind here, color looked good on everyone, but the clothes on all the characters looked strange to her. They had hung strangely baggy and box like clipped or and finished somehow, like maternity tops would look if worn with no bottoms. There were four women in all one of them was definitely Lisa Hall. The other one resembled Gina Gaylord's daughter, Mina Bartoli, but Wanda was pretty sure that it was not she this girl was a little more demure. She lacked that mouth that pointed to belted out personality plus all wore thick coal liner and their hair was pulled back and teased up dues or terrible terrible pixie cuts. In the fleeting picture, Wanda saw that unfortunately she too wore the pixie. Sadly in color Wanda looked a little full in the face, surrounded by so much orange, red and coral as she was were there compulsory themes to be found in their future? Interior decorating mandates in which no two color groupings could coexist or was there more to the picture maybe she did not have the tint part of her psychic eye rightly tuned in. When Wanda's character spoke, the audience laughed that was good. At any rate Wanda knew that this vision represented some part of her television future, reassuring to know that there would be a Wanda in full color, making people laugh alongside Lisa Hall, even if she must wear a bib like dress with cap sleeves. But Wanda knew also at the exact same time that on whatever evening this broadcast was occurring, whatever network season it may be, nineteen sixty four, sixty six, sixty seven, her grandmother was nowhere around, nowhere anywhere. It was certain that Neva would never see her beautiful bright talented granddaughter broadcast throughout the country in living color. This was a fact now, as scientific a fact as Newton's, whichever one it was, laws of motion. Absurdly, Wanda briefly remembered watching out the window at a class brat being shaken by a playground monitor as some grade school instructor droned on about equal and opposite reactions. The fifth, sixth, seventh grade teaching bore tipidly explained the theoretic principle in terms of a bird's flight. The bird flaps its wings, flapping against air currents as it pushes against them, moving offward, east or west. But instead of the bird in flight, Wanda had used the model she had at eye view, this poor juby bound clown, with his continuous effort to inform the class before, during and after sessions about boogers. He shared the full body of knowledge on booger ingredients, the variety of things you could do with them, where they could be left, etc For Wanda's purposes of scientific example, this was the action and what was its opposite a violent shove from a school official, really a fat teenage boy who never finished school himself, whose job it was to unofficially let you have it when no one was looking or so he thought now standing here half in half out of St. Jude's surgical waiting room Wanda was the flapping birdwing and the booger speech is the force. Neva was the heir the teenaged half the counterforce like it or not from this point forward Wanda was life.

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Neva was death a 20 year veteran of the film industry at Universal, Warner Brothers, CBS and the Writers Guild, Catherine Hine also held positions at New West and Rolling Stone and was a personal shopper at Nordstrom. After slowly running through an inheritance she spent two years in a homeless women's shelter which is where she began her epic two-volume novel, The Celebrity. Hine's other writing credits include The Bob Newhart Show and a children's story series in the LA Times about a traveling circus in an occupied France. She now holds a master's degree in English and an MFA in fiction from California State University Long Beach. Intro music is from the song Slow performed by Sally Dworski. Written by Sally Dworski and Chris Hickon available on iTunes, Spotify, Apple Music, and all other streaming platforms. Closing credits music is Moonlight in Vermont performed by Ben Rifkin. Podcast art by Ryan Longnecker. Please take a moment to rate and review us on Apple Podcasts or wherever you listen worldwide. Novel and story submissions may be submitted via the contact page at www dot allenrift.com Thank you for streaming this edition of the Last We Fake