taped like he was some lifeless object.
His four-day beard had not been shaved, and there were still a few tufts of graying hair on the back of his neck that the ER
had missed when prepping him for the operation.
It was that hair that now had her attention.
“I know I promised, but I forgot.”
“A promise is a promise. ‘You’re only as good as your word,’ isn’t that what you always say?”
“Jules . . .”
“Isn’t it?”
“Julia, dear.” It was her mother’s voice. “Daddy’s got a very important visitor.”
“But he promised. And you’re only as good as your word.
Right? Right!”
“She’s right,” he sighed.
The memory continued flickering through her mind. He was much younger, in his twenties. He sat on the sofa, and she stood behind him. She held his thick, curly hair in her fingers and carefully snapped in another bright red barrette.
There were at least a dozen scattered through his hair. Some red, others green or purple—plus a handful of plastic daisies, along with two pink rollers from Mom’s collection.
“How much longer?” Dad asked, squirming to glance at his watch.
“Hold still,” Julia ordered. “Just a few more to go.”
“Jules . . .”
“Okay, okay, at least let me finish this one.” He held still as she clipped in the final barrette. “There. Perfect!”
He rose and turned to her—tufts of hair sticking out in all directions, held in place by the bright hair clips. He was a masterpiece of the absurd, and she broke out laughing. It got hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 52
52 no better when he began making monster faces at her and started to chase her around the room . . . until the doorbell rang.
Suddenly the monster face froze. It glanced to its watch.
“He’s early!”
Instantly his hands shot up to his hair, yanking at the barrettes, trying to undo the clips. Some he managed to remove, most he did not.
The doorbell rang again.
“Want me to get it?” Mom called from the other room.
“No, I, uh. . . I’ve got it.” He gave Julia a look. She tried to cover her laughter but it did no good.
The bell rang a third time. With resignation and a heavy sigh, Dad headed for the door. Julia turned and started for cover, but he grabbed her hand. “Oh, no, you’re in on this, too.”
“Daddy,” she squealed, protesting in delight. “Let me go, let me go!”
But he did not let go. He reached for the handle and opened it. Before them stood a tall, distinguished gentleman.
A gentleman Julia had seen a hundred times on television.
Yet she had never seen him with such a surprised look as he had that morning when seeing her father.
He cleared his throat and in a deep resonating voice asked, “Do I have the right time?”
Dad grinned sheepishly. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid you do.”
Then glancing down at Julia, he said, “I’d like you to meet my new hairdresser. Julia Davis, this is Walter Cronkite. Mr.
Cronkite, my daughter, Julia Davis.”
hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 53
C H A P T E R
T H R E E
“STAND BY TO ROLL TAPE,” THE DIRECTOR ORDERED.
The technical director, a thin, nervous fellow with glasses, punched an illuminated button on the console before him and repeated the order into his headset. “Intro tape, stand by.”
Conrad and Suzanne stood behind the two men at the board. A third, the effects operator, a pudgy individual with an embarrassing comb-over, sat to their right, while two college-aged production assistants, male and female, hovered near the back doing their best to appear cool and nonchalant.
The room was dim, lit by a single row of track lights running along a low, black ceiling. The only other illumination came from the TV monitors forming a wall in front of them. Most were black and white. Two were somewhat larger and in color—the program monitor, which displayed what would be on the show, and the preview monitor, displaying what the director planned to cut to next.
Up on the program monitor, Charlene Marshal,
His four-day beard had not been shaved, and there were still a few tufts of graying hair on the back of his neck that the ER
had missed when prepping him for the operation.
It was that hair that now had her attention.
“I know I promised, but I forgot.”
“A promise is a promise. ‘You’re only as good as your word,’ isn’t that what you always say?”
“Jules . . .”
“Isn’t it?”
“Julia, dear.” It was her mother’s voice. “Daddy’s got a very important visitor.”
“But he promised. And you’re only as good as your word.
Right? Right!”
“She’s right,” he sighed.
The memory continued flickering through her mind. He was much younger, in his twenties. He sat on the sofa, and she stood behind him. She held his thick, curly hair in her fingers and carefully snapped in another bright red barrette.
There were at least a dozen scattered through his hair. Some red, others green or purple—plus a handful of plastic daisies, along with two pink rollers from Mom’s collection.
“How much longer?” Dad asked, squirming to glance at his watch.
“Hold still,” Julia ordered. “Just a few more to go.”
“Jules . . .”
“Okay, okay, at least let me finish this one.” He held still as she clipped in the final barrette. “There. Perfect!”
He rose and turned to her—tufts of hair sticking out in all directions, held in place by the bright hair clips. He was a masterpiece of the absurd, and she broke out laughing. It got hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 52
52 no better when he began making monster faces at her and started to chase her around the room . . . until the doorbell rang.
Suddenly the monster face froze. It glanced to its watch.
“He’s early!”
Instantly his hands shot up to his hair, yanking at the barrettes, trying to undo the clips. Some he managed to remove, most he did not.
The doorbell rang again.
“Want me to get it?” Mom called from the other room.
“No, I, uh. . . I’ve got it.” He gave Julia a look. She tried to cover her laughter but it did no good.
The bell rang a third time. With resignation and a heavy sigh, Dad headed for the door. Julia turned and started for cover, but he grabbed her hand. “Oh, no, you’re in on this, too.”
“Daddy,” she squealed, protesting in delight. “Let me go, let me go!”
But he did not let go. He reached for the handle and opened it. Before them stood a tall, distinguished gentleman.
A gentleman Julia had seen a hundred times on television.
Yet she had never seen him with such a surprised look as he had that morning when seeing her father.
He cleared his throat and in a deep resonating voice asked, “Do I have the right time?”
Dad grinned sheepishly. “Yes, sir, I’m afraid you do.”
Then glancing down at Julia, he said, “I’d like you to meet my new hairdresser. Julia Davis, this is Walter Cronkite. Mr.
Cronkite, my daughter, Julia Davis.”
hththt 5/14/01 11:34 AM Page 53
C H A P T E R
T H R E E
“STAND BY TO ROLL TAPE,” THE DIRECTOR ORDERED.
The technical director, a thin, nervous fellow with glasses, punched an illuminated button on the console before him and repeated the order into his headset. “Intro tape, stand by.”
Conrad and Suzanne stood behind the two men at the board. A third, the effects operator, a pudgy individual with an embarrassing comb-over, sat to their right, while two college-aged production assistants, male and female, hovered near the back doing their best to appear cool and nonchalant.
The room was dim, lit by a single row of track lights running along a low, black ceiling. The only other illumination came from the TV monitors forming a wall in front of them. Most were black and white. Two were somewhat larger and in color—the program monitor, which displayed what would be on the show, and the preview monitor, displaying what the director planned to cut to next.
Up on the program monitor, Charlene Marshal,
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