RSS 2.0 FeedMr. Ray, the Radio Ventriloquist
Dr. Ted gently prodded the old man. "Mr. Ray, I want to listen to your heart and lungs. Nurse Paula is here with your medicines, and she'll take your pulse and blood pressure."
Mr. Ray was parked in the nursing home's common room, slumped in his wheelchair, the wheels locked, awaiting his afternoon snack. Wednesdays featured green gelatin, the choice being a watery, whitish topping from a spray can or plain. A gray cotton towel spotted with delicacies harvested from a week of supping was looped around his abdomen and tied around the back of the chair to keep him from falling. Daytime television provided background. General Hospital was winding down its second half hour. It was absurdly unlike the experiences of these residents, who were in and out of the medicine wards like clockwork.
Mr. Ray was indistinguishable from the other inhabitants except for the presence of a wooden doll snug on his lap. The doll, head down and eyes shut, wore a custom-made tuxedo and bow tie, both askew and dulled by the years. Only its black, shiny shoes, Thom McAn's, the good ol' Buster Brown's, water resistant and scuff-proof, were presentable.
Awakening from the doctor's nudge, Mr. Ray scanned the room for the camera, professional that he was, searching for the red on-air light and the director counting down the seconds before show time. Vision filtered through wrinkled corneas and opaque lenses, he mistook the doctor for Larry the piano player and confused Nurse Paula with Estelle, his comely assistant.
"Presenting Mr. Ray, the Radio Ventriloquist, along with Donnie the wisecracking doll, the beautiful Estelle, Larry at the piano, Patsy Klein, our permanent guest star, and this is yours truly, Mr. Ray." Strong voice with timbre and pleasant basso, the darkness camouflaging his eyes and the lines circling his mouth receding, Mr. Ray performed his show of decades past. "Let's sing that new ballad, Vaya con Dios, together please. Donnie and Estelle, a one, a two..."
Donnie hesitated. "Is that song Spanish, Mr. Ray?"
"Like a mazurka, waltz or gavotte, it's Spanish all right," Mr. Ray answered, not at all upset with Donnie's cheekiness.
"Will my Spanish princess, Ava Gardner, come and sing it with me?" Donnie continued.
"Miss Gardner isn't Spanish, Donnie; you must be thinking of Sophia Loren."
"Mr. Ray, I don't want to sing in Spanish. If English is good enough for Marcel Marceau, it's good enough for everyone. Just yesterday, I was strolling down Cermak Road and 22nd Street, and all the speech I heard was foreign garble, clatter, and more clatter. Why, I thought..."
Estelle, Patsy and Mr. Ray yelled in unison, "Donnie, for goodness sakes, you were in Chinatown!"
Then there were the famous guests who cancelled their appearances at the last moment with fateful telephone calls taken live on television by Mr. Ray, unable to hide his disappointment. Except for Patsy Klein, now a regular on the show, the almost-great country singer with the Yiddish sayings, who sang the same words to Mr. Ray each week with her trademark clarity and lilting voice: "I'll sing bubkes on this show unless there's cash in my envelope and not newspaper shreds like last time, you gonif."
The píece de rèsistance was Donnie and Estelle insisting on every broadcast that Mr. Ray drink water from a glass while talking for Donnie, just like real ventriloquists. Mr. Ray sighed, finally saying OK, exasperated, looking resignedly at the audience, holding their attention for what seemed to be an eternity, and then swallowing the water. At the same time, he released a Dictaphone tape hidden inside Donnie, so it appeared that Donnie was speaking.
Mr. Ray then leaned forward and started to choke, pointing to his throat. "He's going to throw-up for pity's sake!" a scream from the audience filtered its way onstage. But the water regurgitated from Donnie's mouth instead, streaming from an enema syringe also hidden inside the doll. The audience howled. Mr. Ray beamed.
"Mr. Ray, your lungs are clear, and your heart sounds are strong. The medicines are working. Cut down on the salt and try walking with the walker for exercise."
But Mr. Ray was asleep, chin settled down on his chest, not hearing the doctor's pabulum. Showtime was exhausting.
***
The nursing home came with two serendipitous pleasures for Ted. First there was his reunion with the long-lost Mr. Ray, the even-tempered and amiable television father who orchestrated a cast of attractive miscreants. He was the Radio Ventriloquist, master of the clever repartee and king of the live on-air tap dancing and castanet playing contests.
Unfortunately Mr. Ray's jump to television did not serve him well. The show was relegated to an afternoon children's channel featuring inept singing and dancing to the popular songs of the day. And his ventriloquism skills were the antithesis of throwing one's voice. His mouth moved in concert with his dummy's, and their voices were identical. Before the live telecasts the audience was warned to not point and shout, "Look! He's moving his lips!"
Ted's second delight was Paula, chief RN of the Outer Drive Nursing Home. Medium height, slim, eyes the color of a winter sky at daybreak when the light is brushed with frost. Her brown hair swayed in synchrony with each twirl of her head, framing her generous smile. Paula rekindled the erotic dreams of Estelle who had swamped Ted's adolescent sleep.
Paula, in turn, loved Mr. Ray, her favorite charge. With her persistent prodding he awakened slowly, eyelids fluttering, his million-dollar smile unfolding like an early summer rose. She polished the puppet's tiny shoes without prompting, just for his delight.
Paula and Ted shared a life outside the Home - dinner or a movie or both. Sunday afternoon picnics with home-made sandwiches on whole grain bread and soft or hard cheese to accompany the red wine; vin rouge, they said, laughing, clinking plastic cups. Meals often ended with the duo singing a Mr. Ray melody while Ted tap danced. He was a nonchalant Astaire, graceful, hands in pockets jiggling nickels and quarters in time to the beat.
***
Dr. Ted was a good catch, Paula's parents agreed, but don't delay marriage too long they said, their voices trailing off to a whisper, not wanting to go public with their fear. They married at eighteen. Indeed, Ted was almost too good-looking, tall and forceful with a ready smile, attracting attention wherever he went. Waitresses substituted regular coffee for decaffeinated, apologized, and then slipped him their telephone numbers, scribbled on a napkin, balled up to fit into his palm, just in case he wanted company at 2 a.m.
It was Ted's idea: dinner at Kathy's on Hubbard, the French-Moroccan fusion in-spot, with Paula and her parents. A special evening, he said, holding Paula's gaze. Once seated they were welcomed by Harold, the world's most attentive waiter. The napkin on his forearm had a military crease, his black tie was perhaps made of raw silk, and the wine list he handed Paula's father was enclosed in a leather booklet adorned with tassels.
"Try the Charles Krug chardonnay with the appetizer, Mr. Davis" Ted said. "The peach and oak flavors bite at you like the crack of a whip."
"Name's Andy, Ted. And I'll take a Bud," Mr. Davis responded. Looking at Harold he added, "No need for a fancy menu, Harry. I'll have your biggest T-bone and mashed potatoes, not couscous, whatever the hell that is." He pointed a generous index finger at Ted. "The Davis's eat American."
"Call me Alma," Mrs. Davis chimed in, snapping her menu shut with both hands. "A big steak for me, too." She poked Ted in his side with a hefty elbow. "Ted, listen up." Mrs. Davis whispered in his ear, her hand around his neck holding him close in conspiracy. "Andy and I are just plain folk. If you want to surprise us," she stopped to give him a series of winks, "by gettin' down on one knee in front of our beautiful Paula, askin' for her hand in marriage, and hidin' a diamond engagement ring in the apple pie, stickin' half-way out of the whipped cream, real cute like, just go ahead and do it. You know it's a little late now, but next time, consider going to the Denny's across from our house. Andy and me love the pancakes."
"The surprise will come soon." Ted winked back, believing the two of them were on the same wavelength about surprises.
Having gnawed the last of his steak from the bone, Mr. Davis sighed with contentment. He tossed his soiled napkin on the table, giving Ted approval for the hearty meal and the OK to proceed with whatever Ted and the missus were whispering about.
"Ladies and Germs," Ted said, shamelessly borrowing from Milton Berle and at the same time introducing Donnie the puppet who'd been hidden under the table. Oblivious to the startled then stony faces of his audience, Ted and Donnie, dressed in tuxedo and high hat, broke into Puttin on the Ritz; Donnie's tabletop dancing overshadowed Ted's singing. After three minutes of off-key gymnastics, Donnie gracefully leaped over the water glasses and landed on Alma's lap. Harold, firm in the belief that the customer is always right, applauded. He was alone in his admiration.
When no knee was bent nor ring appeared, the elder Davises rose, scraping their chairs noisily on the restaurant floor. It pained them to miss out on free coffee and dessert, and they were as tolerant as the next guy, but this was bizarre. Andy reached for Paula's hand. "Let's go, honey. This guy's loco."
"Ditto," said Alma. "A lousy puppet show with no proposal. What about Paula's future?"
Paula shook her head in bewilderment, unsure about her loyalties and unsettled; her acceptance speech, quietly rehearsed throughout dinner, had died quietly. "I'm leaving, too. They're my parents. You, I guess, are just a co-worker." She patted the top of his head, refusing to allow him to help her slip on her coat.
***
At ninety-five good health is transitory. Mr. Ray was cold and lifeless the following Saturday morning. No need to call a nursing home resuscitation code or 911. Notify Dr. Ted to provide the official pronouncement, sign the death certificate, and phone the funeral home attendants, who were familiar with the nursing home's porte-cochere under which the recently departed were unobtrusively carried to their next destination.
Dr. Ted was heartbroken. His stethoscope begged to hear the familiar lub-dub of the happy entertainer, the silence signaling the end of adolescence. He pulled the sheet over the once happy face before shuffling towards his office to list the causes. A tearful hug from Paula, who had even more paper work to complete and the insurmountable task of comforting the nursing home survivors who were frightened and quiet - someone was always next.
Later Ted wandered into Mr. Ray's room, inexpensive art placed haphazardly on the walls, and the small windows offering little joy. The only pleasing artifact was a framed black and white photograph slanted awkwardly on the nightstand. A young Mr. Ray with abundant hair, black and slick, combed around a pristine part, held a crisp, clothed Donnie, head turned 180°, arguing with his benefactor.
Paula joined him. Equally affected, she sang.
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
When I want you in my arms
When I want you and all your charms
Whenever I want you, all I have to do is
Drea-ea-ea-ea-eam, dream, dream, dream
"Ted?" Paula placed a hand on his shoulder. "The hearse is waiting. The driver wanted to join in at the chorus, but he's on a strict schedule. I'm so sorry about Mr. Ray. I know how much he meant to you. Maybe his death will bring us together. That's my dream."
Ted lost in his reverie was barely able to meet her gaze before speaking. "Mr. Ray is part of our life. Let's work to keep him alive."
***
That evening Ted and Paula met in her office. Paper work and memories needed to be resolved. Paula looked away too quickly when Ted entered. There was nothing really to see there, no pictures or photographs, just posters listing the State and Federal nursing home regulations surrounding the sole window.
"Ted, I think about you when it's still and quiet. I want to be the most significant person in your life, the person you turn to for everything good and bad." Her voice faltered as she brushed at tears with the back of her hand.
Ted reached out to gently touch her cheek. "I've cherished the laughs and the loving. I revel in them every night. In my dreams you're Estelle or Patsy, sometimes both."
Paula, anticipating Ted's drivel about adolescent encumbrances, reached under her desk and extracted Mr. Ray's puppet. Propping it up on a chair next to her, she patted its limbs into place, aligning the top hat, her hand hidden underneath the coat and working the mouth.
"Hello out there, this is Donnie speaking for Mr. Ray and his new best friend Nurse Paula." Paula found confidence with the puppet at her side. "I may have a knotty-pine brain, but even I know a good catch when I see one." Donnie pointed to Paula.
"Did you know that married men live longer?" Donnie asked Dr. Ted.
Ted, well versed in the Mr. Ray/Donnie routines, mumbled the correct response, "Yes, but it seems like an eternity."
Donnie continued, testing the doctor again. "Why is Nurse Paula known in the hospital by the name 'appendix'?"
"Because all of the doctors want to take her out."
"Correct again! So read my lips, Mr. big shot doctor. Nurse Paula has all the goods. And now I'm going back into my box. Auf weidershen, as they say in Norwegian." Donnie quoted an old Mr. Ray closing line, while he pointed an accusatory finger at the doctor. "And I'm staying there until you and Nurse Paula get hitched, married."
Ted flushed and looked away, trying to clear his thoughts. How would Mr. Ray handle an encounter with a formidable Nurse Paula teamed with his once-upon-a-time friend? He stopped Paula from placing the puppet back into the box, the tall black hat was being crushed, his arms and legs becoming tangled.
"Maybe we can work something out," he said. His heart was willing.