Going to a fancy dinner honoring actor Tony Randall’s support of the Alabama Shakespeare Festival in Montgomery, I decided to dump my Doris Day look and smolder instead. I removed the reliable straight pin from my blouse, exposing a bit of cleavage. For me, it was a reckless move. I always have been discreet about cleavage.
But as I grow older, I have learned a woman must don costumes appropriate for various occasions-if necessary, using one’s bosom as an accessory or adding some mystery with jet-black hose. For this particular dinner, I dressed up to the point of wearing my faux pearl earrings.
Then, after years of watching Randall dine and quip his way through a string of romantic film comedies, I found myself sitting excitedly at Table 11 on the Festival Theater stage, looking out on the empty house seats, knowing I would meet him that night. Randall had agreed to attend to help his friends, Winton and Carolyn Blount, festival benefactors. Carolyn Blount, for whom the theater is named, was one of my high school English teachers. Her husband, who made his money in construction, was U.S. postmaster general from 1969 to 1971.
The arrangement of dinner tables on stage was designed to let potential festival donors feel what it’s like to be a star. It’s a good feeling.
When Randall finally appeared mid-Julius Caesar salad (each course had been named after a play) he joined Carolyn Blount. When he greeted her, I could see his face clearly. And when he told Carolyn that she grew more beautiful every day, from six feet away I felt his words wash over me.
Almost simultaneously, the newspaper publisher seated across from me said, “Do you know how close your chair is positioned to the edge of this stage? If you move even six inches you are going to fall off backwards.”
“I like living dangerously,” I said, wriggling on my ominously squeaking chair, eager not to lose my clear view of the movie star.
The musicians began playing “An Affair to Remember.” I hummed along.
During the Much Ado About Veal Piccata course, I learned from the evening’s first speaker that I had not fully appreciated the meaning of the word “endowment.” (It means a good deal more than $25.)
After dinner, sated by good food and enthralled with all things theatrical, I lined up to shake Randall’s hand. I was just noting how tall the guest of honor was when my ex-English teacher took my right hand and placed it in his.
Try as I might to say something clever, all I could muster was a soft, sincerely whispered “thank you” to my ex-teacher for making the evening possible, but when I spoke, I was facing Randall.
He looked bewildered to find himself standing next to a woman who could not deliver her lines audibly. And before I could try again to say something, anything-even “Nice to meetcha, Mr. Randall”-I was ushered off stage.
The house lights rose. The musicians stopped playing. The evening was over. I was not disappointed.
A woman who adds mystery to her costume with jet black hose understands that the clock strikes 12 on evenings of make-believe. For me, this fleeting quality is theater’s chief allure.
My time on stage lasted just long enough. I appreciated the music; the food was delicious. The leading man was taller than I had expected. And I may have muffed my lines, but I’ve decided to pretend that Randall saw me as a sensitive woman who expressed her gratitude for some act of kindness he has long since forgotten. My usually discreet cleavage and I won’t soon forget sharing a stage with him.
