Promise Me (15 page)

N
eiman Marcus Fortnight of 1973 had a British theme. The main floor was transformed into a grand manor hall with soaring banners, Celtic musicians, and mummers. When Suzy came to see it, she and I agreed that Robert Leitstein was perfect for me. In fact, we agreed that Robert Leitstein was perfect,
period
, with his electrifying good looks, timelessly upmarket style, and a seamless, witty brand of repartee that subtly but distinctly showcased how smart he was. Bob was on his way up the ladder at Neiman Marcus. And he was Jewish. I was starstruck the first time I met him and did everything but handsprings trying to get him to notice me. He finally invited me to a party he was giving, and I was further starstruck when I saw his lovely apartment: clean lines and cultured accents, the
haute
of everything, just like the man himself. I did my best audition material, he quickly zeroed in on me as prime mating material, and after a year or so, we were engaged. I knew my father wouldn’t be thrilled about the difference in our ages, but if anything, that added to Bob’s charm.

“He’s a vice president,” Suzy teased, “and you’re his vice.”

But in retrospect, I think I was more of a sociology experiment. There was a very Henry Higgins-Eliza Doolittle dynamic to our relationship. I’d come a long way and learned enough to recognize how much I could still learn. Now here was Bob, eager to be my Pygmalion. He was wise in the ways of style and had a brilliant vision of the exemplary wife he wanted me to be and the refined life he wanted us to live—right down to the
nth
ramekin and throw pillow. I had a lot of respect for Bob and welcomed his direction and constructive criticism. It was thrilling to envision myself through his eyes: a
moderne
Donna Reed who kept
an immaculate, upscale home, raised beautiful, lockstep children, and maintained a thriving, upwardly mobile career.

Of course, that career couldn’t be on the same track as my husband’s. I’d have to leave Neiman Marcus.

Mr. Marcus was loath to lose me after all the time and energy the company had invested in me, but it wasn’t even a question. These were the good old days; an assistant buyer didn’t become the wife of a senior officer and stay with the company. I didn’t necessarily accept this unwritten law of corporate nature, but I wasn’t bullied into the decision. I was happy with it, and not just because I’d completely bought into Bob’s Jewish
Wunderfrau
scenario. The truth is, I’d realized marketing was where I wanted to be. As much as I appreciated the art of couture, I never really had a burning passion for fashion like Suzy did.

“There’s a lot more to life than retail,” I told her. “It wasn’t going to be a life of meaning for me.”

Suzy readily agreed, probably thinking I was talking about the meaning I’d find as a wife and mother, because this was a moment when Suzy felt her own life had a lot of meaning. She and Stan had moved back to Peoria and were living in a cute little house not far from Mom and Daddy. After Scott came along, they’d adopted a baby girl, Stephanie (Steffie for short), which gave Suzy a sense of completeness about her family. She loved her husband, loved their comfortable existence in this homespun, salt-of-the-earth community. Suzy’s dream was for the two of them to do well enough to have a little vacation condo in Florida someday, but other than that, she now had everything she’d ever really wanted.

She was a goddess when it came to throwing birthday parties—for her children, for children of her friends, for Boppie—it didn’t matter how many candles were on the cake, the occasion was done up right with lavish decorations, innovative party themes, hats, favors, games, and music. Suzy was born on Halloween, so naturally, there were extravagant costumes and festivities every year.

She had a terrific circle of friends and was a bit of a local celebrity, in the paper on a regular basis, modeling for department stores and boutiques. People recognized her from the photo spreads and from Junior League and all her other charities and activities. She thoroughly enjoyed being a big fish in the little pond. Suzy also did a lot of things no one ever
knew about. Sometimes in her volunteer work at St. Jude Children’s Hospital, she’d become acquainted with a teenager who needed a shoulder or a mother who needed a day out. She never walked by someone in pain or need, but she never felt the need to broadcast that.

Having found this particularly sweet spot in her own life, Suzy was eager to see me settle down. Some of my romantic assignations during college and my first few years in Dallas had caused Suzy a lot of angst. Watching me edge into my late twenties, well past the point where a nice Jewish girl should be married, she was delighted to see me with this fabulous man who was going to turn me into a classically trained wife.

Mom was not quite as enthusiastic.

She didn’t like the way Bob had taken charge of planning the wedding, which was to be a small but precisely tailored event at the Fairmont Hotel. He wouldn’t let Mom or Suzy or me touch anything related to staging and particulars. He chose our china and silver patterns, designed the bouquets, orchestrated the wedding cakes and flower arrangements, presided over the linens, table settings, music, menu, seating chart—every swizzle stick and cocktail napkin.

When I took my parents out to dinner at a Chinese restaurant to “discuss” the arrangements from which they’d been pretty much excluded, my father folded his arms and made a blunt assessment: “There’s something funny about the whole thing.”

“I think he’d like it better if the bride and her family weren’t there,” Mom said. She was worried that I wasn’t speaking up—which was very unlike me.

“Mommy,” I said, “the truth is, Bob has better taste than I do. I could never come up with anything as chic and elegant as all this. Why should I argue about it?”

He’d selected a sophisticated Ungaro gown for me and had it sent to Neiman Marcus, where he stood frowning while a seamstress finessed the stiff, matronly collar. He arranged a practice run for my hair and makeup, and I hardly recognized myself. There was something unsettling about this total stranger in the mirror, but I must say, she looked
fabulous
. I’d never felt truly glamorous before, and it felt good. Daddy was just disgruntled about the age thing, I decided, and Mommy would be happy when she saw how gorgeous everything turned out.

The night before the wedding, Bob and I had a cocktail party at the beautifully done apartment that was to be our home. Waiting for guests to arrive, I was kidding around instead of focusing on where the hors d’oeuvres were supposed to be positioned. Bob took off his shoe and threw it. And not playfully.

“You think this is a joke?” he said sharply.

“No … I was … I’m sorry.”

I stood there, stung and astonished as it dawned on me: I was going to be apologizing for the rest of my life. The only thing out of place in this immaculately appointed apartment was me. Perfection. Nice place to visit, as the saying goes, but you wouldn’t want to live there. The moment Suzy arrived for the party, I dragged her into the bathroom and shut the door.

“Suz, you have to help me. I can’t do this. This is a terrible mistake.”

“What? What’s wrong?”

“All I could see was—I was so
wowed
by him, but now—I don’t know. I’m not sure we even know each other. He thinks he’s getting this malleable, chubby Jewish girl—ten years younger, never got the memo. Oh, sure, I’m a quick study, so he can shape me however he wants, and what he wants is fat and happy and home while he’s out traveling the world, and I’ll be the mother of three children and never open my mouth.”

“Nanny …” Suzy looked at me, nonplussed. “You are not chubby.”

I sat on the edge of the tub and moaned into my hands.

“And
malleable
—are you kidding?” She sat next to me and put her arm around my shoulders. “Nan, what’s this about?”

The only concrete thing I could come up with was the shoe, so I told her about that.

“Oh, dear.” Suzy bit her lip, then shook her head. “He’s nervous. You’re nervous. Everyone’s nervous. It’ll be fine. You look beautiful, Nan, and Bob … he’s
perfect.
”

“He is. I know. And I want to do the right thing, but Suzy, I’ll never make him happy.”

I didn’t know how to make sense of it. How could I not want to be with him? Made by him, I was more beautiful than I’d ever been. When he told me where to stand and how to act, I could be confident I’d never put a foot in the wrong place. There was no valid argument for backing
out and countless valid arguments against it. I’d be humiliating our parents, embarrassing myself, wasting all that food, flowers, candelabras, and money—for what? To escape the certain hell of an affluent life with every girl’s dream husband?

It was ridiculous even to consider such a thing at this stage in the game.

But a desperate feeling swept over me, and it was still with me the next day as I walked down the aisle toward this flawless man with whom I was not in love.

I
’d made a lot of connections in and beyond Dallas through my involvement in a steady pace of arts, charity, and political endeavors. As president of the USA Film Festival, I’d brought some big names and illuminating cinema to Dallas and worked with other movers and shakers in the American Cancer Society to produce the annual Cattle Baron’s Ball. I enrolled as a nontraditional student and started taking courses in film and broadcasting at Southern Methodist University, and this all came together in a job as a talk show host at a local radio station. By the time I was pregnant with Eric, I’d been given the title “Talk Editor” at WRR, a Dallas radio station that was owned by the city but which ran on ad revenue, not as nonprofit public radio.

Understandably, this caused some friction with other stations in the city, which for years called for WRR to be privatized in the interest of fair play. WRR (speaking of strange bedfellows) was a sometimes-troubled marriage of civic and commercial interests, but I loved the added challenge of that delicate balance. Our bottom line couldn’t be about money, but we didn’t have the luxury of preaching to the choir while someone else paid the light bill. We weren’t in a position to adopt one political view or another or to bend facts in the service of a biased agenda, but we felt a responsibility to raise difficult questions and hold people accountable for the answers.

My on-air partner was the brilliant and hilarious Guy Gibson, WRR’s managing editor. He was huge and jolly, but didn’t spare the conversational lash, and people loved him. “Gibson and Goodman” brought together topical subjects, provocative discussions, lively audience participation,
and an amazing lineup of guests ranging from artists and actors to politicians, doctors, and scientists. Every hour of the talk show required at least two hours of homework. I wasn’t about to settle for the small amount of knowledge that makes a person dangerous. I made sure Guy and I were armed with the best available information, whether we were talking to the cast of a Broadway touring show or the grand master of the KKK. This was a real schooling in “consider the source” for me, a training ground where I first understood the toxic quality of misinformation and the motives of those who spread it. I had a high degree of confidence in science, but I started to understand what Mark Twain meant when he said, “There are three kinds of lies: lies, damn lies, and statistics.”

Our conversation with renowned economist Eliot Janeway was particularly eye-opening. I came away from it understanding that, almost always, the truth could be found beyond the numbers in the practical application of science to life.

It was my responsibility to get people on the horn and convince them to be on our show, despite the fact that we had no budget to offer them any kind of fee or honorarium. It was a fascinating, creative learning experience. I talked to people I never would have talked to, read books I never would have read. I dashed through the airport with my portable tape recorder dangling from a strap around my shoulder, trying to catch up with my quarries as they changed planes or ran for a flight. I was utterly fearless, and that in itself was a joy. Bob arranged his lunch hour so he could critique my performance every day, and as much as that grated on me, I’d have to admit his comments were incisive and astute. I improved by leaps and bounds.

One of the most fascinating guests we brought in was Elisabeth Kübler-Ross, who came to talk about her groundbreaking views on death and dying. In her book
On Death and Dying
, published in 1969, Kübler-Ross introduced “the five stages of grief”: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. In 1975, when I was at WRR, she was touring to promote her third book,
Death: The Final Stage of Growth
, a sort of compendium of voices: people facing death, families, survivors, physicians, and others. It furthered her study of the dynamics of death and dying, but it also reflected on how profoundly the way people die is affected by the way they live.

One thing that riveted me as I read her book was the description of the common near-death experience reported by so many people. I’d experienced it too, when I was a very little girl. After I had my appendix out, peritonitis had set in, fever and infection raged, and my intestines shut down. Mother and Daddy were terrified, but I remember feeling almost blissful, ascending through the rushing tunnel, emerging into golden fog and a feeling of immense peace.

“Before I read your book,” I told Elisabeth, “I always thought it was a dream.”

“Maybe it was,” she shrugged. “Does it matter? Does it change what you gained from the experience?”

“Well, I don’t know that I gained anything. It was just … interesting.”

She nodded. “Or maybe you gained something and don’t know it yet.”

Every day that we were on the air, “Gibson and Goodman” was a sprinting, fourteen-hour-a-day job. My only complaint was that it didn’t last nearly long enough. Audiences embraced the news-talk format on WRR, but advertisers were slow to latch on. Guy was fired in the spring of 1975. Station management tried to spin it as a budget cut, but Guy was quoted in
Texas Monthly
as saying his removal was “systematically engineered by the city manager’s office” because our show was too controversial. A number of station employees walked out in solidarity, and for those of us who chose to stay—or stayed because we had no choice—the job wasn’t much fun anymore.