Kathy Little Bird (22 page)

Again I was alone.

T
HE
initial impetus the Johnny Carson show gave my career had run its brief course. Nashville was beckoning, and since things looked more promising there, we packed up. Much of my time during the next year was spent there, with stretches in both Chicago and New York. But wherever I was physically, things settled down to their usual norm—a crisis every other day, forgotten by the end of the week. Better described as maniacal. Maniacal in Chicago. Maniacal in New York. Maniacal in Nashville.

Time seemed to compress. I worked in tandem with myself, carrying on with all routines, keeping appointments, cutting tapes and demos. I thought of getting a benefit together on my own. It seemed the only way I could sing my ethnic songs. But Jim Gentle was too closely associated with that particular project. I hadn’t gotten over him. He wasn’t an easy guy to get over.

So I didn’t object to the killing schedule Trimble laid out for me. Mornings she brought out her ledger book, embossed with my name in gold leaf, and read off my obligations for the day.

It did seem there wasn’t enough of me to go around. But at first I was pleased that I never had an afternoon to myself. And as long as there were people surrounding me, I was “on.” Being “on” meant looking good, standing tall, and smiling cheerily no matter what. I couldn’t slouch about in sweats. If something itched, I couldn’t scratch. Above all, I had to be unfailingly pleasant, always hard for me. There were moments when I needed to glower and gloom and carry on, but my schedule didn’t allow for letting off steam.

I was listening to Trimble inform me the pedicurist had arrived, and remind me that at four o’clock a writer from
Cosmo
was dropping by…after that, a rehearsal with my backup…then dinner with some visiting big shots from Las Vegas, and I was to be at the studio nine
A.M.
sharp. The room began to swim. It was time to yell—Enough yet! I had to be by myself. To think.

No, to
not
think. Just to lie down and not think. Not plan, not arrange, not commit, not promise, not impress, not argue,
not convince, not agree, not fight, not make up, not laugh, not cry—simply lie down and look at the ceiling and blank out.

I put the pedicurist off to another day, sent everyone away, and told a probing Trimble to cancel all appointments.

I went to my room and lay down on the bed. There. I’d done it. It was easy. I was alone. Finally.

Instead of feeling peaceful, I was distressed. I had made too good a job of it, cut myself off from everyone, from Abram, from my daughter, from Jack, from Gentle, even from my brothers. I often wondered about them. At one point I’d written Jason, but the letter came back. He no longer lived there. There was no human being I had any connection with, no one I cared for or who gave a damn about me.

I recalled the various cats and dogs I’d gone to sleep with when I was little: Nicky, an enormous, docile Newfoundland who resembled the nurse in Peter Pan; Beau, a white Sami who kept my feet warm; my kitten Pitty Sing from the
Mikado.
Abram ended up with her because Jellet claimed he was allergic. I wished I had one of them now.

A few days later I was in my dressing room, taking a break. I picked up a
Reader’s Digest.
The jokes didn’t seem funny and the true stories didn’t seem true. I tossed it back on the table, trading it for a slightly rumpled newspaper. Yesterday’s. Oh well, I suppose the world was pretty much the same today as yesterday. The same problems unresolved, Israel and the Palestinians, the troubles in Ireland. I thumbed through the pages methodically.

My eye was caught by a handsome, distinguished-looking
man about to board a plane. I read the caption and snapped to attention. It was my father. Erich von Kerll, trade commissioner. Yes, that was right. I tried to read it all at once, to absorb what they said about him. “…divides his time between Austria and the United States…expedited export of American engineering technology. Responsible for…his daughter…”

His daughter? Me?

“…his daughter, Elizabeth Brillianna Kerll…killed in a blinding blizzard when the car in which she was a passenger…”

My God, a sister! I’d had a sister. Her name was Elizabeth, and she was dead. My poor father. Poor Erich. How awful it was to lose someone out of your life, especially a daughter.

I recalled the Austrian folk melodies Mum used to put me to bed with, the ones von Kerll taught her. Folding the picture all around and creasing it with my nails, I very carefully tore it out.

The man who was my father looked back at me, very handsome, a touch of gray at his temples. And his eyes, gray like Mum said.

Would he come back to America? I wanted to help him through this terrible time. I wanted him to know, in spite of what had happened, that he still had a daughter.

On the instant I hunted up pen and paper and wrote to Erich von Kerll at the Austrian consulate. PLEASE FORWARD, I printed in block capitals. I started my letter.

I stuffed my letter into an envelope and took it to the post office myself. I watched it being weighed, watched the postage go on.

Why hadn’t I done this before?

What was wrong with me? Why had I allowed those dissonant chords Elk Woman sang to describe me, prevail, when what I wanted was a yodel, mountain peaks, snow valleys, and my father, Erich von Kerll?

Mac had been after me to let him arrange a European tour. Why not? Why not meet my father, second-in-command of a U-boat in Hitler’s navy?

I tempered my enthusiasm with a dose of reality. Simply because I liked his pretty Tyrolean folk songs did not negate the fact that he had left Mum.

Mum had not been lucky in her choice of men. The one she really loved died on her, von Kerll went back to Austria, and the third, Jellet, the less said of him…I reflected that so far I had not done better.

Why had I ever left home? Why had I wanted to sing, to make love to audiences? Why had I wanted to bring Cree songs to the world? I should have stayed in St. Alban’s with the only person who ever loved me.

I could do it now. I could go back, take my share of the bankroll and go home. I could settle down and send for my daughter. I brought myself up sharply. I knew where that ended.

I felt a strong need to fight with somebody, but there was no one I liked well enough.

M
AC
was insistent that we attend the ACM awards. I wouldn’t have thought much about it, except for Trimble. She dressed me with exceptional care and fussed over makeup until I looked like Barbie.

“Anabel,” I said exasperated, “what’s all this about?”

“I’m not supposed to say anything. But rumor has it…you’re in line for an award.”

My heart did a kind of flutter. “I don’t have any platinums. I don’t have a chance.”

In the taxi I challenged Mac. “Do you know something about the ACM awards that I don’t?”

He chortled. “Let’s say you’re an odds-on favorite.”

“Really? Me?”

“How would Best Female Vocalist strike you?”

I hugged him. “Oh Mac. If it’s true, it’s wonderful.” And a second later I burst out with, “I can’t believe it.”

And I couldn’t. This happened to top people. Had I climbed into that league? Was I there? My spirits shot into the stratosphere. Years of fleabag motels, smoky clubs, running up and down the country in that old jalopy pitching my vocals. The work, the turndowns, it all paid off tonight. If only Mum were here. I needed someone to share it with. I was teaching myself not to think
Gentle,
not to think
Abram.
Gentle was lost. And Abram was married by now—some Mennonite girl with thick ankles and a dozen kids.

Shared or not, the award was the best thing that could ever happen to me. It meant I’d made it. I’d really made it.

We pulled up in front of the theater. The presentation first and dinner afterward. Mac squired me past screaming fans to where police guarded the door. It was unreal.

Inside Mac led me to the third row. “Not too far to walk,” he grinned. My group and backup singers were there, some big names, the media, agency people, staff people, and studio heads. Mac kept whispering names as he pointed them out.

The program began; a stand-up comic warmed up the audience and the speeches got underway. I sat in a daze.

“Best Female Vocalist!” Mac squeezed my arm.

The spot swung around. I sat forward in my seat, ready to rise. But something was wrong. They didn’t call my name.

Dear God, it was a mistake. It wasn’t me at all. The spot picked up a blonde, beautifully coiffured. But—but—it was one of the girls who sang backup for me.

Flashlights went off in my face as a dozen cameras caught my expression of dismay, chagrin, and bewilderment.

Everyone laughed except the comic, who mimicked my expression of dismay.

“It’s a roast!” Mac shouted, laughing with the rest.

I stared at him, still not comprehending.

“A joke! A gag!”

Dozens of people surrounded me. “You should have seen your face!” “Priceless!”

Laughter.

All eyes on me…how was I taking it? The laughter mounted, shafting me.

I tried for brittle, I tried for sophistication, the bright amused smile. “So clever. Hilarious.”

They congratulated themselves. They couldn’t talk of anything else.

The doors were opened to let in the audience, and the actual ceremony got underway. When I won Best Female Vocalist I stood woodenly, and woodenly accepted my plaque.

On the way home I remembered Mum telling me of something that happened to her. “My mum had a roast once,” I told Mac. “She was in nursing school, and when grades were posted, she had the highest score. So her classmates honored her with a practical joke.”

“Oh? What was it?”

“She left her patient to see about his medication and when she came back they had planted a corpse in the bed. You know, the screen around it, the sheet drawn over the face.”
I regarded Mac carefully, from the wen on his forehead to his nose hairs. “Which gag do you think was funnier?”

H
OLLYWOOD.

There it was, spelled out on the sign in the hills, just as you see it in movies. And there was Mann’s Chinese, gilt and plush, mirrors and deep carpets, and the twisted colonnades which, Mac instructed me, were Romanesque. Outside, handprints and footprints of the old movie stars forever encased in cement. I wondered if the women brought extra-small shoes for the occasion and crammed their feet into them, because they were sizes smaller than mine. If I became famous enough to do my feet, even Anabel wouldn’t be able to help.

Since I’d given up on benefits, perhaps Hollywood was the answer, churning up innumerable possibilities. The first appointment was a continuation of our sightseeing: offices on the MGM lot. What a thrill when the great gate clanged behind us.

The meeting was upbeat, gracious, with coffee served. I was just what they were looking for, a new talent, box-office gold, and on and on. We left, glowing.

The fabulous deal that simply required a signature fell through. The producer we were negotiating with was fired. Mac, never at a loss, had another hot contact, and we did lunch, this time with both producer and director. Everything was go. Then we got word that the male star they were angling for got a better offer and the picture was shelved. A third possibility demanded a piece of my contract. We went
back to middle America and club work. My permanent home was Nashville, if you can call an apartment hotel permanent or homey.