WLT (36 page)

Thank you so much, Frank White
. He blushed for sheer pleasure. His own name, spoken out loud by Dad Benson. He was famous. His name now a known radio name. People in Mindren mentioning to their friends, “I was listening to Frank White on the radio today,” not knowing it was Francis With, and people he had never seen before, thousands of them, saying, “I heard Frank White say on the radio today that barrows and gilts are selling about fifteen cents a hundredweight lower,” and their friends saying,
Oh, is that right
. “Yes, that's what Frank White said.” A good name, two short strokes: Frank White.

He almost didn't hear Dad's last line, “And now here's Frank again with the weather,” and his brain lurched and there were a couple dead seconds while he formulated a sentence: “In the forecast for today, we find sunny skies...” and then he drew a blank—where to go next? Back for more livestock? Back to Dad? He looked up at Gene, who gestured as if breaking a stick. Station break. “WLT, Your Home in the Air, broadcasting from studios in the Hotel Ogden, 770 kc., Minneapolis.” Then Gene's voice in the headphones: “Smelser copy.” It was right there. He read:
If you've been thinking of adding on a porch, now's the time, say your friends at Smelser Construction. There's nothing like a porch—it lets the air in, keeps the bugs out—and you can put a bed out there and get the best sleep of your life. The folks at Smelser know porches because they've built so many of them. So choose experience and reliability. Choose Smelser
. Then Gene said: “Here she comes!” And the studio piano, with a modest flourish, rolled out, “A Little Street Where Old Friends Meet,” and Frank said, “Yes, wherever you are, it's time to smile. So sit back, relax, and listen as One Fella's Hardware presents our very own Miss Lily Dale,” and from Studio A came her very own girlish voice: “Thank you so much, Frank White. You're very sweet. Doesn't he have a wonderful voice, folks? Oh, I can hear all of you out there say, Who is that young man? Well, his name is Frank White, and we're so extremely proud of him, and—awwww, look at him, I've made him blush.”

But she was nowhere to be seen. Studio A was around the corner and down a long hall. She couldn't see him though, true, he was blushing. He turned in the chair and looked up at Donna. She seemed about to climb down off the wall, give him a big kiss, lay him on the floor, and pull down his pants. He stood up and patted her. “My, how the years fly by without our knowing it,” Lily Dale was saying. “And I'd like to dedicate this song to that little boy who went around the corner, goodbye—this beautiful song, ‘Memories of the Old Home Town.' ”

Roy Jr. told him he had sounded quite smooth, very professional. “You have a natural voice. Don't screw it up by trying to make it sound like something. I don't think you ought to be an announcer, it's a dead end, but if you do it, just use your own voice.” And then he said, “Did you get a look at my aunt today?” No, Frank hadn't, he had been off the wheelchair detail and on the air.

Roy Jr. stood up and walked to the window and peered out through the blinds. “She's a hophead,” he said. “Cocaine and codeine and God knows what. Powder stuff. Tippy brought me a sack full of empties. She gets it from a drugstore and she uses fourteen different names. The druggist is a fan of hers from way back. His name is Oliver something. I've seen him around here, bringing her presents.”

“Maybe she could give it up if we asked her to,” said Frank. He felt itchy all over.

“People don't change, Frank,” he said. “Not often, and never for long. Besides, she's a terrible singer, don't you think?”

“No. I think she's okay. People like her a lot.”

“You're too kind.”

“It could be a lie. Tippy is so bitter, you know. Maybe he made it all up.”

“He showed me the goods. It's better to end it right now. Bring her up.”

When he wheeled Lottie into Roy Jr.'s office, she said that it was the coziest, the most beautiful office in the building, and why not, it was Roy Jr. who kept WLT together, always had been, so why shouldn't he have the best? Of
course
he should.

He said, “Aunt Lottie, I've decided it's best that we terminate your employment here as of one week from today.” He talked about her remarkable record of service, her loyalty, the old-timers from long ago, and then said, “I'll work out a pension arrangement myself.”

“For heaven's sake, why?”

“I don't want Ray or my dad to have to do it.”

“Ah, your father,” she sighed. “I never hear his name but what I think of the beautiful radio he made for me. I still have it and it's never needed repair of any kind other than replacing the tubes. Oh he is a genius, your dad. What a lovely man. And your mother too. Please remember me to them. Will you? Oh I think of your mother and to me, she's like the first day of spring. Innocent and pure—Oh, there are cruel things done, child, and dark deeds and hearts are easily broken, but that sweet girl, she knew nothing of heartbreak or cruelty either.”

“This isn't easy for me to do,” he said, “but we have to face facts. Times change. Popularity changes. People like you for awhile and then they want something else. That's a hell of a hard fact for a performer to accept.”

She cried. She knew he didn't mean it. WLT was her home. She couldn't leave it, even though she met a little discouragement along the way, she would remain true and do her duty and give people the old songs, the good old songs, they never fade away, people come to appreciate them more and more, especially as we get older. No, the old songs are the best songs, and though some might scorn them, she would not. And then, sitting in his office, she commenced to sing “O Danny Boy, the pipes, the pipes are calling, from glen to glen and up the mountainside.”

He said, “Can you live on three hundred dollars a month, Aunt Lottie?”

“Oh I don't need much, child, my needs are few, all I need is a microphone.” She said, “Money is the farthest thing from my mind. You don't owe me a thin dime. It was my boon and privilege, darling. All I ask is to keep on singing.” But finally, it was agreed, she would retire. “Do you understand what I'm saying?” Roy Jr. asked. She said she had always understood him perfectly. “But about your retirement?” She said, “Whatever you say, I'll do.” They shook hands on it, and Frank wheeled her out the door, and she looked up beaming and said, “Child, I feel my career is just beginning.”

He ran upstairs to 4-C and called Maria. “You sounded so good!” she cried. “I listened to the whole two hours while I took a bath.”

Patsy thought Frank sounded like a million dollars. She said so to Dad Benson. And to Ray and Roy Jr. “It's a shame we go looking for talent and we don't see what's right under our noses. Frank White is pure gold. There isn't a
thing
he can't do. You wait and see if you don't get some mail on him.” That afternoon, she bought seventy-five postcards and notecards and an assortment of stationery, and sat down and wrote, in a variety of handwriting styles and on her four different typewriters, a variety of listeners' letters admiring WLT in general and then zeroing in on the tremendous young announcer (“White, I believe his name is”) who had suddenly emerged in the ozone, so personable, so intelligent, so warm, a major talent who would bear watching.

Maria and Frank ate dinner at the Pot Pie and the waitress said, “You two look like you're sweet on each other”—Frank had his left hand on Maria's thigh, about halfway up her skirt, and he did not eat his meat loaf. They walked to his apartment, and sat on the sofa. He kissed her again and again, but she didn't grab his leg, and when he touched her breast, she shrank back. “I want you to hold me,” she whispered.

“I'm trying to.”

“No, you're grabbing at me.”

“Well, I'm sorry.”

“Would you like some coffee?”

She filled the kettle with water, lit the stove, and got down the coffee can. “I used to have to boil water for my father,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I had to clean up after him. What a filthy brute he was.”

She stood in the doorway. Frank wished she would come back to the sofa and congratulate him on his big debut.

“An awful thing for a daughter to say, but who would know better? My mother died when I was seven. She was in childbirth. I think the baby died too, but I don't know if anybody told me or not. My father was in a fog. My sister and I took care of him, and then she left, and I lived with him until I was seventeen. Do you know Milwaukee? We lived near St. Basil's, on the South Side. He was a streetcar conductor, and he'd come home at night and sit in his green uniform and hardly touch supper, just sit and drink beer. He gurgled like a pump. I would lie upstairs on the bed with my coat on and listen. Not move a muscle. I was afraid he would come up and get me. I was ready to go out the window.”

Maria stood, her hand on the door, alert.

“He sat and drank and then his chair scraped and the icebox door opened and the beer bottle popped open and the icebox slammed shut and down he sat and swallowed that one and got up for another. After four or five, he climbed the stairs and went in the toilet. Didn't even close the door. Then came this
deluge
of water, and he
would not
flush, he just lumbered downstairs and repeated the whole process. Then after awhile, he didn't bother to climb upstairs, he made water in the kitchen sink, and when he was dead drunk, he wet his pants, and then he fell asleep on the sofa.” Maria stopped. She was weeping and she put out her arms for Frank. He held her head against his shoulder and put his face in her hair.

“When I came down in the morning to go to school, there was Papa, red-eyed, and that terrible acrid smell, and he was crying, head in his hands, and yelling at me,
Why do you treat me like I was nothing to you? You're worse than your mother was
. I had a scholarship to the Milwaukee Academy of Dramatic Art. I went off to school with all the kids from nice homes and sometimes, if the classroom was warm, I could smell my father's urine: it was in my blouse, my skirt, my hair. I was sure that other girls could smell it, that they made faces at me behind my back and held their noses, that it was in my school file—‘has poor personal habits and smells of body waste'—and that I would never get a job, and I'd have to live with Papa the rest of my life, wash his clothes, haul his beer bottles, pour Hilex down the sink. So I started using a strong perfume but then, on the streetcar home, these men would grin at me. They leaned against me, they leered at me. They looked down at my breasts like it was fruit on the counter. That's where I met Merle, at the Academy. He was my best friend, the only one who invited me home for dinner. His family was so good to me. I moved in with them a year later. You're different from other men, Frank.”

Frank was not sure he wanted to be completely different, but anyway the coffee was ready. He got down the cups. He told her that he had now finally discovered his place in the world, radio. He didn't mention the birthday girl. He wanted to tell her exactly what happened, but now was not a good time. No need to beg comparison to other men.

A few feet below, Patsy Konopka smelled their coffee and put on water to make herself a pot. She had almost finished Frank's fan letters. “There is something in his voice that makes radio come alive,” she began, with a fountain pen, soft loopy letters, on bluebell stationery. “I am going to be listening for him in the future, believe me.”

N
o Sex On The Premises
was Ray's rule, spelled out to every man he hired, even the Rev. Irving James Knox way back in 1927. Ray said: “Keep your hands off the females, I don't care how you feel, or what suddenly comes over you, or how her hand brushed your lap and her left breast jumped out at you, I don't want to hear it. No matter how sad and lonely your life is: don't touch women around here. Keep your hands off them.”