A very pushy, demanding mob of reporters awaited me in New York as I
changed planes. Feeling defenseless, I tried to answer their questions but
they were in a feeding frenzy, pushing one another in eagerness. I didn't
have a whole lot of time to catch my next flight and had to change
airlines. Knowing the gate for that flight could be a long hike away, I
kept excusing myself and trying to leave, only to be stopped by reporters
in the next tier of the circle that surrounded me. I made a little headway
just by continuing to walk as I answered, but I couldn't see past them to
look for the signs indicating the direction to my next gate. I wished that
Paul or Alistair or Brian or anyone were with me to help me deal with them.
Alistair's arranged press reception and his and Paul's briefing on how to
talk to them had certainly helped me feel more comfortable with the press
but none of us had anticipated this kind of problem.
“Please, I have to catch my plane,” I told them. They didn't listen, or if
they did and backed off, they were quickly replaced by others. I was
starting to panic. As it was, it was going to be evening before I got home
and tough enough to fight jet lag to be up and off to classes bright and
early in the morning. Missing a flight could mean hours of delay and
getting home long past midnight.
In desperation, I grabbed a big burly reporter literally by the lapel of
his coat. “Listen, I have to catch my next plane. Get security and get me
to the gate and any time I have left before the plane leaves is yours for
an exclusive interview.”
He lost no time in pulling me through the crowd to a nearby loading gate
where he told the boarding personnel to get security immediately. We were
ferried to my gate and the reporter got about five minutes of an interview
for his efforts. Luckily he was neither prepared for an exclusive interview
nor particularly good at his job because he came up with little more than
the standard questions for me before I was told I could board early.
Chicago was similar but less intense because this time I was prepared. I
stayed on the plane until security arrived, gave the reporters a few
minutes of smiley poses and standard responses, then holed up in the
bathroom until I could board the next plane. Minneapolis and a couple of
waiting reporters were small potatoes after all that.
“How did he propose? Was it romantic?” was what Sandy wanted to know the
minute we were in the car. I told them about the afternoon at the Cavern
and Sandy's eyes filled with tears. At last, something romantic enough to
exceed her high expectations!
The fans waiting outside the apartment asked the same questions as their
British counterparts but were a little easier to handle. Fewer of them were
crying and none of them seemed angry with me. As one girl said “If it
weren't for Tess, Paul would have never come here and I would never have
met him. I don't want him to get married, but it is cool that she is from
here.”
I called my parents to let them know I was safely home and then fell into
bed and tossed and turned until it was too late for a goodnight's sleep
anyway.
In the morning, my classmates were eagerly waiting for me to repeat the
whole story and by evening I was stupefied from jet lag and overexposure to
fame. I stumbled through the week, trying to get back to some semblance of
normal life and normal sleep patterns.
Paul called early in the week to tell me had seen the results of the photo
session and that I would be happy with them. “You look wonderful,” he said
but couldn't resist teasing “Especially that last one with your nightie
pulled up!” He had arranged to have copies of all the pictures sent to me
but said he and the photographer and Alistair had already selected those to
be given out to reporters as there wasn't time to get my input on that.
Having already seen some yucky shots of myself in the British newspapers, I
knew whatever they selected would be an improvement. Our engagement had
made the local news but they hadn't yet gotten the press photos so they
used pictures from Paul's last visit. There were one or two with my mouth
open in mid-reply to reporters, one with my hair blowing across my face,
but some nice ones of Paul and I just looking happy. The picture destined
to make big news and possibly set some wheels in motion was none of those,
however.
Late the next afternoon, I was returning home from the laundromat with
Sandy. As we got out of the car, juggling laundry baskets and Tide, a small
group of fans was waiting. “Would you autograph this for me, Tess?” one of
them asked and held out a magazine to me. It was the new issue of Look
magazine, just out that day. “Here, sign right next to your picture,” she
said as she opened the magazine to their photo of the week.
I took it from her, surprised that a magazine, even a weekly, had already
been able to run anything about the engagement of Beatle Paul. But there we
were, Paul and I, but it wasn't taken during my trip to England and wasn't
run because of our engagement. It only took a second for me to place the
photo as having been taken at the airport in Minneapolis on Paul's arrival
there in March. There I was in my white go-go boots, fishnet hose and red
crocheted fringed vest, in Paul's embrace and caught in the middle of a
kiss. The photographer had not captured a sweet little smooch but rather a
hungry, arms around his neck, bodies plastered together, his hand verging
on grabbing my ass, definitely located well beyond my hip, kiss. It was
startling to see. I hadn't realized where his hand was. I was too used to
it or too glad to see him or too lost in that kiss, I guess.
I wouldn't have been surprised to see the accompanying text discussing our
lack of decorum, so “shocking and ill-considered from people who have so
much influence on today's youth,” but it wasn't about that at all. This
photographer had stepped back far enough to end up with the two of us
framed by other photographers snapping away. The editors chuckled over Paul
who “in the past has squired many a young lady about” and “cognizant of the
ever-present press” kept his hands to himself leaving photographers quite
frustrated that they never caught more than an arm about the lady or a bit
of hand holding. “Now it appears the last remaining bachelor Beatle has
fallen head over heels,” the article said. “Unfortunately, the
international nature of this romance has them meeting amid throngs of fans
and photographers. No privacy for these young lovers. We would refrain from
publishing this photo, but the photographer has captured so well what it
means to be in the public eye that the shot deserves a place in
photojournalism, not some teen magazine.”
I stifled the “Oh my God!” that sprang to my lips, signed for the fan, and
escaped upstairs. Sandy, of course, had loved the picture and described it
to Brenda in terms that made it sound like a Hallmark Valentine's Day card
complete with cupids shooting arrows. Her only complaint was that we had
been “squashed so tight you really couldn't see their faces.”
“Nobody is going to be looking at our faces,” I fretted. “His hand was on
my butt, for crying out loud! My parents are going to be so embarrassed!
Paul isn't going to like it either. He never does stuff like that in
public! He even asked them to stop taking pictures so he could kiss me that
day!”
Brenda had to rush out and buy a copy of Look to see it for herself. “Oh,
yeah,” she said as we all gazed upon it later. “That's not Paul's usual
public kiss, but it is a cool photo. Look at the balance and framing, and
yet it is so obviously spontaneous.”
“Photo Monthly and Mike McCartney will love it, and Paul might even
appreciate the art but he isn't going to like that invasion of privacy!”
“At least it is a good magazine and they are sympathetic,” Sandy said.
“Maybe it will win some photojournalism award,” Brenda mused, looking at it
again at arm's length as if seeing it on a wall in a gallery. “Like that
picture of the sailor kissing a girl when WWII ended.”
“I don't think he had his hand on her ass,” I sighed.
I called Paul that night hoping to break the news to him but he had already
heard about the picture. I could tell he was irritated, but since there was
nothing to be done about it, he shrugged it off. The next night he called
back.
“The magazine hit the shelves here today,” he reported. “I took one look
and called Alistair and told him to track down that reporter.”
“What are you going to do?” I asked in alarm.
“Ask him for a copy of the original, have it blown up and framed and hang
it in our bedroom,” he said. “I love it. I love you and I love the
picture.”
The weekend finally arrived and exhausted and craving sleep, I escaped to
Mom and Dad's. As I expected, Mom and Dad had seen the picture and heard
comments on it from everyone they knew. Coming to them as it had after the
announcement of our engagement, they were not as horrified as I had
expected though. As for the engagement itself, that was no surprise since
they had known since Christmas what Paul's intentions were. They still had
mixed feelings about the whole business, but Paul's phone call letting them
know he planned to propose and apologizing for not waiting longer seemed to
have hit the right note with them. They moved from resistance to mere
foot-dragging. Mom was especially conflicted over our plans. She was
relieved I wasn't rushing into marriage. Even so, the idea of me moving to
England with Paul before marrying him was upsetting. In her eyes, marrying
him was still a risky, far out thing to do but still more acceptable than
living in sin with him. I talked about the apartment I would be living in,
how close it was to several hospitals, and generally tried to defuse that
issue by talking about a wedding.
Mom was disappointed when I explained that a traditional wedding would be
impossible.
Church and invitations and caterers and bridesmaids were out unless we
wanted a nightmare of security guards, screaming fans, and invasive
reporters. Mom and Dad agreed that they just couldn't deal with all that,
much less afford the lavish spread that would be expected. Encouraged, I
went over the idea that Paul and I had.
“We want to get married quietly with as little fuss as possible in a legal
ceremony in London.” Mom looked horrified, but I held up a hand to stall
off the impending dismay about it not being a Catholic wedding. “The media
will be tipped off at the last minute, given an opportunity for photos, a
few words from the happy couple, and that will be it. As far as they know,
the McCartney wedding will be history. Fans will cry and get over it, and
reporters will stop lurking around afraid of missing the clue that a
wedding is imminent. Then a few days later, after all the hysteria dies
down, you will all fly over and we will have a private ceremony at a church
in Liverpool followed by a reception at Paul's father's house. Close to a
real wedding, Mom! I can have flowers and a bridesmaid or two, a real
bridal gown, and a priest.”
After shocking her Catholic sensibilities by saying we would be married in
a civil ceremony, she was so relieved to hear that we also planned a
Catholic ceremony as soon as possible that she probably would have agreed
to a wedding in Madagascar. Of course, I would have a wedding gown, after
all, the civil ceremony was no more than a red herring for the press. It
wouldn't count.
I thought I was home free, but she fussed about how she was going to plan a
wedding so far away. After all, the bride's family was responsible for the
wedding and all the expenses. I said I would do the planning. We would pick
out a dress when I came home in July for State Board exams and have it
shipped to London and have the fitting done there. Mom could handle the
bridesmaid's dresses from here. Mom and Dad could give me whatever they
felt was a reasonable amount of money to spend on the reception. Paul would
pay for flowers, Dezo Hoffman would do the photos if allowed to publish a
few. There would be no invitations to send out, and Paul was insisting on
paying for the plane tickets and hotel bills for them, my sisters, and
Steve's family.
Just when I thought we had it all taken care of, she wanted to know about
an engagement announcement for the local newspaper. It hardly seemed
necessary after Dave Moore, Tiger Beat, and Newsweek, but “This is the way
it is done,” said Mom, so we wrote the traditional engagement notice.
“Mr. and Mrs. Carl Martin of Northland announce the engagement of their
daughter Theresa Marie to James Paul McCartney of London, England. Mr.
McCartney is the son of Mr. James McCartney of Heswall, Cheshire, England.
Miss Martin is a student at St. Vincent's Hospital School of Nursing in
Minneapolis and will graduate in June as a registered nurse. Mr. McCartney
is... "
This required a bit of thought. Neither of us wanted it to say “a Beatle.”
Mom because she was embarrassed enough by that fact, me because it made it
sound like he didn't work for a living. We agreed to say “musician” but she
refused to allow the words “rock n roll” to be used. We ended up with the
dignified “Mr. McCartney is a musician in the field of popular music. No
wedding date has been set.”
I called Paul before I would let Mom send it to the paper, unsure of how he
would react. He just laughed. “That's me, a musician. I like that, but
leave off the popular music bit. John always says I am more Cliff Richard
than Little Richard and I hate that!”
Things settled down a bit but still, it seemed there was no time to just
sit back and enjoy being engaged to Paul. There was a constant background
of cameras and reporters and even autograph seekers. It was a surprise to
me that anyone would want my signature. Schoolwork was heavy with the final
countdown to graduation beginning. There were just eight weeks to go with
the last week being final exams and rehearsals for the graduation
ceremonies. Paul would be coming over in about three or four weeks,
depending on the wrap up of Sgt. Pepper and he would stay until after
graduation.
I started hunting for an apartment for him, but the choices for rental
without at least a six-month lease were limited to some little kitchenettes
behind sleazy little hotels or to apartment complexes way out in the
suburbs. When I told him that, he said to go ahead and find something with
a year's lease that he could sub-let after we left for England. “Sub-let”
was a word landlords didn't like to hear, so that narrowed the
possibilities down. All in all, it took weeks before I had found a couple
of possibilities for him. He said he would send someone, possibly Mal,
ahead the next week to set up security and a driver for him, take care of
the lease on the apartment and set up an arrangement with a bank for
transfer of money. I was relieved not to have to deal with international
finances!
Before that could happen, however, a secretary from the Dean of Nursing's
office interrupted class one day to inform me that I was to report to the
dean's office after class. That had the whole class buzzing. A summons to
Sister Ignatius's office was not common. Brenda turned around to look at me
and I could see the concern on her face.
The only thing I could come up with was the possibility that my nemesis,
Mrs. Berghoff, had decided to make trouble after all. My grade average was
a high B and it was only weeks until the end of classes so she couldn't
flunk me even if I did poorly on the two remaining tests. If she wanted to
make an issue of my clinical performance, I still had my notebook, but I
had a feeling that this was something different. She had pretty much quit
riding me in clinical, choosing to pointedly ignore me. That had changed
right after Paul's visit to Debbie and I suspected it was because she had
realized then that it was not only the students but also the hospital staff
who were on my side in our little war. Anyway, it seemed strange that she
would bring up issues from the first part of the semester now.
Maybe it was something different. I was on the planning committee for the
graduation ceremonies, now just five weeks away. It could just be something
related to that. They probably wanted Paul to speak or sing or write a
class song or something.
After class, I hurried to the dean's office. I was shown in immediately and
found her and a man in a suit waiting for me. Sister Ignatius introduced
him as Mr. Richards, the Vice President of the Hospital. They both looked
grim and my first thought was that somehow I had killed a patient.
“Miss Martin,” the dean began, “It has come to our attention that there may
be things going on in your personal life which are not consistent with the
image of a St. Vincent's nurse.”
That was better than killing someone, but I felt the sweat prickling under
my arms anyway. She went on in a non-threatening but firm tone, “We do not
make a habit of prying into our student's personal affairs, but when those
affairs become public knowledge, it reflects badly on St. Vincent's. As you
were informed when you were accepted at St. Vincent's, you can be dismissed
for immoral behavior.”
She stopped, giving me an opportunity to respond, but I simply sat there,
unsure of what she was talking about and afraid to say anything for fear of
telling them something they didn't know. Just which rumors had she heard?
The one about the orgy at our apartment on New Year's Eve, the one about
the drug bust the cops made at the Halloween party or was it something that
held a lot more truth than that? If so, it had to be about Paul—no one knew
the real truth about John and me. I knew there was plenty of talk about his
visiting me and lots of speculation about why he had left Cyn, but with
Paul and me now engaged and John and Cyn back together, those rumors were
dying out. No one knew about California, at least I didn't think so. As far
as what went on between Paul and me, no one outside of Brenda, Sandy, and
Mark knew for certain that we were sleeping together, but everyone knew
that he stayed with us while he was here and that I had gone to England
with him, unchaperoned. The fact that there was talk was certainly not
surprising.
The silence hung on, and I let it hang. The only other time I had ever
talked to the dean was when she questioned me about my dropping grades. In
spite of her stern expression, she had seemed very concerned and wanted to
help if possible. I was pretty sure that she would at least listen to
whatever I had to say, but I didn't dare answer until I knew exactly what
the charges were. She finally went on.
“As I said, we do not monitor our students. Dating someone is certainly not
grounds for dismissal. However, because you are dating a celebrity, there
is a lot of talk.” She hesitated again, and I waited, relieved that this
was only about Paul. She looked at the man from the administration, handing
the gauntlet to him.
“I understand that you spent your break in England with this man. Is that
true?” he said in a peevish voice that irritated me instantly. That and the
fact that I couldn't ignore a direct question finally got me talking.
“Fiancé,” I corrected firmly and let the distinction between “man” and
“husband-to-be” sink in for a moment. “Yes, I did. He wanted me to meet his
family.”
He looked and sounded irritated that I had turned his scandalous escapade
into a very traditional and therefore respectable journey, but he pushed on
anyway. “Be that as it may, that incident and the fact that you allowed him
to cohabit with you for several weeks has left you wide open for
speculation that you have ... ahem … have an intimate relationship with
him.”
“He stayed at the apartment with me and my roommates because he just can't
wander around on his own or he gets mobbed.
My roommates were there. We weren't alone.”
“None the less, there is widespread belief that you are involved in an
illicit affair with him.”
I couldn't deny it and wouldn't admit it. I sat silently, trying to keep my
face expressionless, wishing I could manage an impression of regal, haughty
disdain.
“More importantly,” he went on, “ there is talk of drug use among the
Beatles. Associating with known drug users is grounds for dismissal.”
There was a note of triumph in his voice. “And ... " He was practically
crowing, “there is also a rumor ... "
I knew what was coming.
“ ... of a relationship with one of the others. A married man.”
There was a roaring sound in my ears. He went on talking and I sat
silently, really scared now. They can't possibly know about that, we were
careful. Please don't let them know about that!
“Of course we will not take action based on rumors and speculation,” the
dean started to say, but Mr. Peevish cut her off.
“Your behavior reflects badly on the school. St. Vincent's has a reputation
for producing excellent nurses of good moral character. That is a
reputation we value highly.” His tone was one of indignation that anyone
would smudge that sterling image.
The Dean was silent, looking down at her hands as if whatever she had been
about to say had just been overruled. When she spoke again, her voice was
quiet and resigned and she wouldn't meet my eyes.
“I have been Dean here for eight years and in that time several girls have
been asked to leave, most because of poor scholastic performance, a few for
pregnancy. In each of those situations, the girls left school quietly as
soon as they were informed that dismissal was probable. That made it easier
for them to get into other schools later if they so desired. That is always
our recommendation—that the student withdraws before we are forced to
officially dismiss her.” There was compassion in her voice and that, more
than the administrator's witch-hunting attitude scared me. She thought I
didn't have a chance.
I stammered. “You want me to quit school?”
She looked relieved that I was getting the message clearly. “That would be
best in the long run, Miss Martin. You have until Friday to decide. If you
do not resign, there will be a hearing on Friday to discuss whether to
dismiss you.” She hesitated, glancing at the administrator before going on.
This time she looked me right in the eyes. “Terry, I feel I have to tell
you that there are several Board Members who are quite concerned. They do
not take it lightly when the reputation of St. Vincent's School of Nursing
is endangered.”
That told me all I needed to know. If it went to a hearing, I would be
dismissed. I couldn't deny all of the charges because that would be a lie.
They didn't care about what I had done anyway. All they cared about was
what people were saying about me. The truth was unimportant here. All that
mattered to them was that having me as a student was reflecting badly on
the school. My stomach lurched sickeningly and I thought I was going to
throw up. I mumbled “Excuse me,” and bolted out of the office.
By the time I got to the bathroom, the urge to throw up was gone and I
simply crumpled up in the corner crying. The tears were short-lived,
however. As soon as I thought of telling Paul what had happened, I realized
that now there was no reason to stay here. I could be in England in a week!
I latched onto that thought, using it to stay afloat. As awful as this was,
I still had Paul. I picked up the books and notebooks I had dropped on the
floor and headed out.
Outside on the steps, Brenda was waiting for me. So were several of my
classmates, all curious about why I had been called to see the dean. I
looked at them and suddenly heard Paul's voice saying, “ ... there are the
ones who want something from you, try to get inside your life and then turn
around and use you.” I had always considered my classmates to be friends.
They had certainly been a help when I didn't want reporters to find me. Now
as I looked at their curious stares, heard their whispers when they noted
that I had been crying, I realized that I was really close to only a few of
them. They were just classmates, acquaintances. Surely they weren't here to
find out what had happened so they could go to the press, but it would
certainly be a great story to tell friends. “I was there the day they
kicked her out of school.”
I was getting used to people wanting to get to know me, hang out with me,
have me come to their parties simply because of my association with the
Beatles, but this felt different. They didn't just want people to know that
they knew me, they wanted to know about me, know personal stuff they could
impress their friends with.
It was a bad feeling, something I didn't want to think, but I suddenly felt
a world apart from them. Alone, isolated. I wanted to be with Paul. “Let's
go home, Brenda,” I said and started for the parking lot.
As we drove home I gave Brenda a word for word rundown on the meeting. Her
silence told me she agreed with my assessment of my chances of staying in
school. “I'm sorry, Terry,” was all she could say.
As soon as we got home, I went to the phone to call Paul. It was already
late evening in England and I didn't want to wait until tomorrow to talk to
him. As much as I was dreading telling him, I needed to hear his voice. He
would be upset, angry on my behalf, but he would tell me it was all right
and he would be happy that I was going to be with him soon.
Just holding to that thought was what kept me from falling apart. I could
tell myself I wasn't giving up and running away, I was running to Paul. If
I resigned, I could start school again in the fall in England. It would add
a year, maybe more, but I wouldn't have to scrimp and save and work two
jobs to do it. I had to laugh a little at the memory of the night in Paul's
garden. I should have just accepted his offer to give me whatever I needed
to finish school then. He was going to end up paying for it anyway!
There was no answer to my call, and I tried again several times before
Sandy got home. When she heard, our soft-hearted little romantic was
furious. She ranted and raved about how unfair it was, they had no right,
my personal life was none of their business, they were hanging me without a
trial, they couldn't prove anything, and didn't they have any idea of what
it was like to be in love? She volunteered to talk to the dean and lie like
crazy and say Paul slept on the couch every night, or that she was the one
sleeping with him, or whatever lie was necessary.
When she finally ran out of steam, she asked, “What are you going to do,
Terry?”
“I'm going to quit school and leave for England as soon as I can get
packed.”
They were both appalled. “You have to at least try and fight it!” Sandy
said.
“You can't just walk away—you are only five weeks from graduating. Five
weeks!” Brenda said.
“You have to go to that hearing and tell them they can't do this!”
“Everyone will back you. We could get the students to threaten a protest
march or something!” The image of a bunch of student nurses burning their
cafeteria discount cards flashed through my mind, but even that cartoon
version of an anti-war rally couldn’t spark any fight in me.
“You put three years into this.” Brenda persisted. “You can't give up your
chance to be a nurse. You've worked too hard for it!”
“That's why I have to withdraw!” I said. “If it goes to a hearing, they are
going to throw me out. The dean told me it would be better to resign before
it comes to that. If I get kicked out, it will be really hard to ever get
accepted into another school. If I just say I had to quit because I
couldn't afford it anymore, then I can get into a school in England in a
year or so.”
Brenda was shaking her head. “That won't work Terry. They'll check your
records and find out you were just a month from graduating. Your fees are
all paid. They'll know it wasn't a money problem.”
“They'll know who you are,” Sandy added. “They'll know it had something to
do with Paul.”
We went over and over the situation, but I still couldn't see where I had
any choice about quitting. Everything that had been said at the meeting,
verbal and non-verbal, told me the administration wanted me out and they
held all the cards. It was their school and their decision and that was
that.
I thought about calling my parents that evening but realized suddenly that
I had no reason to attend classes anymore and no job to go to either since
the job was dependent on being a St. Vincent's student nurse. I could go to
see my parents the next day and break it to them in person. After calling
the school and officially resigning tomorrow afternoon, I would drive down.
Paul finally answered my call. “Hey lover boy,” I said. “How would you like
it if I showed up on your doorstep next week?”
“Tess?”
“How many other girls do you have calling you at midnight?”
“Far too many,” he laughed, “but none I'd rather hear from. How are you,
love? Missing me desperately, I hope.”
“Well, I won't be missing you much longer.”
He heard the quaver in my voice. “What's wrong?”
“They are going to kick me out of school.”
“What?”
“There are a lot of rumors flying around about me and they seem to believe
them. They have a morals clause in the admission policy.”
“Morals clause? Just what kind of rumors have they heard?”
“Stuff about drugs and sex.”
He was quiet for a second as that sunk in. “Oh, baby. I am sorry I got you
into this.”
We talked for a long time, me explaining what had been said, and Paul
alternately swearing furiously at them and apologizing to me while I
insisted it wasn't his fault.
“Just tell them that the stories aren't true,” he urged me.
“I can't lie to them. I'm a terrible liar. My face gets all red and I
stutter, and whether the rumors are true or not isn't the issue. All they
care about is the school's reputation. They don't want people
thinking they accept just anybody. Nurses are supposed to be good people.”
“You are a good person. I love you and what we have done isn't wrong. It is
no one else's business and that stuff about drugs is crap. You've never so
much as touched marijuana. What they are doing is wrong! Dead wrong!”
He was getting angrier the more he thought about it.
“No, it isn't. Not really,” I said trying to cool his anger. “I was told up
front that students could be dismissed for immoral conduct. I knew the
rules and I broke them. Drugs are illegal and the student handbook does say
that associating with lawbreakers is grounds for dismissal. And the morals
stuff ... it isn't just us. They mentioned John.”
“They know about that?” He sounded horrified.
“The same rumors you heard in England were floating around here.” I had to
choose my words carefully. Brenda and Sandy were in earshot.
He was quiet for a minute. “You are sure they don't know anything? That it
is just rumors? If they can't prove anything... "
“Paul, they don't have to prove anything. It is their school and they can
do what they like. They don't want a student that people are talking about
even if every bit of it is false.”
We talked a bit longer, discussing how soon I could leave for England. I
anticipated flak from my parents, but I was beyond caring about that. I
just wanted to put all this behind me.
“If you think it would help, you could tell your parents we are getting
married as soon as you get here. If you want to, I mean.”
“Do you want to?” I asked, taken off guard by his offer.
He laughed a little and avoided a straight answer. “Since you wouldn't have
to worry about starting a new job right away perhaps you could adjust to
being married before you go back to school.”
“Or maybe I could just forget about school, marry you and live happily ever
after.”
There was a long silence from Paul before he said softly, “Honey, don't
give up on school. I would love to have you at home, just being my wife,
having my kids, but I don't want to think that you missed out on being a
nurse because of me.”
I felt better after talking to Paul. I was really in no hurry to get
married. Just being in the same country with him for more than a week at a
time was going to be wonderful. Also, I had to admit, being engaged to a
Beatle was exciting and I kind of wanted to savor it for a bit longer.
Even so, when the realization hit me that within two weeks I could be his
wife, I had to sit down. That thought was exciting, comforting, and a
little scary.
That night I crawled into bed and reached for the alarm clock to set it for
6:00 a.m. out of habit. That's when it all hit me. I had no reason to get
up in the morning. Three years of living for days when I could sleep in,
three years of studying, struggling, penny-pinching, working constantly,
giving up parties and dates, had been all for nothing. By that point, worn
out from the day's trauma, I couldn't even envision going back to school in
England. I was going to marry Paul. I didn't need to be a nurse to support
myself. Being tied to a job was going to be a nuisance anyway. If today was
a sample of what I would be up against just because of Paul, it wasn't
worth it. Being married to Paul, having a family, that was more than enough
for me. I cried for a long time and finally fell asleep after I got up and
got a shirt of Paul's out of the closet to hold onto.
Brenda shook me awake the next morning. Groggy, I looked at the clock.
6:30. I had overslept! I jerked awake only to have my memory lurch back
into place and dig its claws in. Yesterday had not been a bad dream.
Brenda's voice broke through the fog. “Terry, Paul's on the phone.”
“Tess,” he said, “I want you to wait a day or so before you resign. I've
been on the phone all morning and think I have got a guy who may be able to
help you. He'll be contacting you today and once he has time to go over
everything, maybe he will see a way to handle this.”
The incongruity of Paul working to see that I stayed in school instead of
going to him didn't hit me at that point. All I was thinking is that it
would be so much easier to just give up.
“Tess?”
I swallowed hard to keep the tears out of my voice but I couldn't hide the
dismay. “Oh, Paul, that means I have to go to clinical today and class
tomorrow.” The thought of walking into that building was daunting. Seeing
the curious stares, hearing the whispers, knowing even though my classmates
might feel bad for me they were also soaking up every minute of this,
excited to have been tangentially involved with a Beatle related event,
would be unbearable. “I don't know if I can face everyone. I can't just
pretend nothing is going on. Everyone knows something is up.”
“Sag off,” he suggested.
That didn't sound as appealing as taking the next plane to London, but I
forced myself to consider whether I could skip school. I couldn't. “If I am
going to try to make them let me stay in school, I can't miss a clinical
day. Mrs. Berghoff would see to it that I couldn't make it up and that
would keep me from graduating.” I groaned. I didn't want to go, didn't want
to prolong this. I just wanted out.
“I thought you would be glad I was going to be with you sooner,” I
protested.
“Come on, love,” he said, sounding hurt. “You know I want nothing more.”
“I know. I'm sorry. I know you are just trying to help.”
“And kicking myself for it already,” he said, trying to joke. “I have been
trying for months to get you here with me and now I am blowing my big
chance!”
“Then let it go,” I said. “I just want to get out of here. I want to be
there with you. It is better this way anyway. If I drop out I can get back
into another school, but if they kick me out... They are at least giving me
that chance.”
“All they are doing is giving themselves a way to keep their hands clean!”
Paul argued. “You quit and they don't have to officially give you the boot.
They aren't trying to help you, love, they just want you to make it easy
for them. If we can't force them to let you finish there are a lot of
nursing schools. Someone will care more about your qualifications than all
that crap.”
I considered that, my mind just not wanting to even contemplate the uphill
battle ahead if I decided to fight them.
When I didn't answer, Paul said softly, “Come 'ead, I got you in this mess,
let me try to help. Do it for me, love?”
“OK,” I said weakly. “I'll go to school.”
“Just hang in there another day or two. We've got until Friday morning. If
he doesn't come up with something, you can resign on Thursday afternoon.”
“How am I going to meet with him? I'll be in school all day.”
“I'll arrange for him to see you late this afternoon or tonight.”
“Who is he?”
“I don't know,” he laughed, “but he'll be the best money can buy!”
I sighed, wondering if money could fix this.
“Love, I'll be there as soon as I can,” he said. “I think I can get out of
here tomorrow morning.”
“You are coming?”
“Of course I am! You wouldn't be in this mess if it weren't for me.”
“Paul, it isn't your fault—”
“Yeah, but it certainly isn't yours and I won't let you face it alone. Now
get off to school, you are going to be late as it is.”
“I love you.”
“I love you, too,” he said softly, “and Sweet Thing, I'll marry you
whenever you are ready. Crisis or no crisis.”
On those words alone, I made it through the day. The look of surprise on
Mrs. Berghoff's face when I showed up for clinical told me she knew what
was going on and her obvious displeasure at seeing me indicated she not
only knew but had a hand in it. The other students held their questions
until lunchtime when she was not around. There was no point in being
evasive with them. If things went the way I thought they would, they would
know soon enough that I had been kicked out.
“The administration has been hearing all kinds of rumors about me, and they
think that it makes the school look bad, having a person like me for a
student. If I don't drop out, there will be a hearing on Friday to decide
whether to let me finish.”
They were gratifyingly appalled. It was interesting that none of them
questioned exactly what the rumors were. They knew. They had heard them
all.
“They can't believe all that crap about you!” one girl said. “You just
aren't that kind of a person!” They all agreed and focused on their belief
that I would be a really good nurse and that was all that the school needed
to know. They all felt that students should be judged solely on their
performance and private lives left out of it. I got the impression that not
only had they already sorted out the bald-faced lies from the possible
truths but that some of them felt their private lives wouldn't hold up to
scrutiny either. They were indignant on their behalf, not just mine. My
paranoid suspicions of the afternoon before faded into the background and
the rest of the day went much better.
After school, I got a call from a man who introduced himself as “Harold
Weinberger of Whitney, Carlisle, and Fromm, Chicago Illinois.” Sounded
impressive even if I had no idea of who Whitney et al was. He stated that
he had been asked to review my situation, made an appointment to see me
that evening and got my address. He said very little on the phone and when
I told Brenda and Sandy about it, they were full of speculation.
“He must be a lawyer. Geez, Terry, a lawyer!” This was way back in the days
when lawyers were for divorces and murders and fights over big money.
People didn't sue over lost jobs or spilled coffee.
I waited tensely for him to show up. Paul called and there was little I
could tell him. He was leaving London early in the morning and would arrive
at 5:00 p.m.
When Harold Weinberger rang the bell, I answered the door to find a short
man with a shock of black hair that made a Beatle cut look as tidy as a
crew cut. He wore baggy pants, poorly matched shirt and an uncoordinated
tie that resisted hanging straight no matter
how often he tugged at it, and he did so repeatedly as he introduced
himself, dispelling any hope that he was a door to door salesman. He didn't
look nervous, just intense. His handshake was jerky, almost impatient. If
all that weren't enough, he was young, late twenties at best. After dealing
with the esteemed Solicitor Entwhistle, Mr. Weinberger looked like a kid
just out of school. If this was the best money could buy, I was in big
trouble and would probably end up not only out of school but in jail!
I invited him upstairs and introduced him to my roommates. “Very nice to
meet you,” he said as he jerked at their hands.
Brenda asked the question I wanted to ask but was hesitant to because I
just didn't think I could keep the incredulous note out of my voice as I
asked it. “Are you a lawyer, Mr. Weinberger?” Even though I thought she
asked it without a hint of implying that he sure didn't look like a lawyer,
he seemed to be used to being asked that question in that way. His face lit
up in a grin that abruptly turned him into the kind of guy you would accept
a date with even if he was shorter than you and not even remotely good
looking.
“Harry, please. Yes, I am a lawyer, but not one of the Perry Mason type. I
don't do jury trials. I seldom do court cases. I work behind the scenes,
advising clients on how to stay out of court. Sort of ‘preventative law' if
you will.”
“Oh,” we all said relieved.
“I don't work for a law firm,” he went on. “Whitney, Carlisle, and Fromm is
a Public Relations firm. Although we work primarily with businesses, we do
have a large clientele of people in the entertainment business in our New
York and L.A. offices. We are not agents. We simply apply public relations
methods to personal situations. Celebrities are a business in and of
themselves in that they market their name. We help them keep that name
marketable. We guide them through divorces and other tough situations, try
to turn around bad publicity, and so on. It certainly isn't the company's
main interest, but we find it a profitable sideline, Miss Martin.”
“Terry, please,” I said.
He looked puzzled. “I thought your name was Tess.”
“It is, sort of,” I explained how I had come by the nickname.
“So that is how you met Paul McCartney and got involved in all this!”
“Yes.”
“How did you get involved?” Sandy asked him. “Do you know Paul?”
“No, not really. I met him when I met John Lennon, but I doubt either of
them remember me. My firm was called in to evaluate the situation that
resulted from John's comments about the Beatles being bigger than Jesus.
The New York office handled it, but since the press conference was held in
Chicago, I was involved. So, when Alistair Taylor got a call from Paul
requesting help for you, he called New York and they called me and here I
am.”
While he talked, Harry opened his briefcase, took out a yellow note pad and
pen and settled on the couch. Introductions and explanations out of the
way, he proceeded to rapid-fire questions at me concerning my school
records, incidents with Mrs. Berghoff, the precise wording of my meeting
with Sister Ignatius and Mr. Richards. He asked to see the school handbook
and my notebook on Mrs. Berghoff. He listened to me and skimmed the pages
of both books while speed writing notes in a pointy scrawl. When he
finished, he opened the briefcase again, replaced the yellow pad and pen
and snapped it shut.
“That's it?” I asked in amazement.
“No,” he said with that warm smile breaking through the intense scowl he
had been wearing. “That is just the end of the note-taking. From here on
out, nothing goes in writing. We have found that our clients are reluctant
to discuss personal matters while someone is taking notes, and we are going
to get personal, Terry. First, I need to hear all the rumors going around
about you. I suspect your roommates will be more helpful in this than you
can be. Celebrities tend to be the last to hear the stories.”
Celebrity? Me? Paul was, but me? A few autograph requests did not a
celebrity make. Celebrity by association perhaps, but…
Harry brought me back from my wandering thoughts abruptly. “After that, you
and I will discuss those rumors in private.”
I had been worrying all day about whether I should explain about John. I
couldn't think how to tell Brenda and Sandy they had to leave the room so I
could discuss it, and Harry had just given me a way to do that without it
appearing obvious I wanted them gone. Getting rid of Brenda and Sandy was
only part of the problem, however. Telling even one person, even one whose
professional career depended on discretion, was risky, but if I didn't tell
Harry and it turned out that one of the rumors was that I had spent
Thanksgiving in California, he would be caught off guard and without
defense. It hadn't taken long to realize that was a moot point. If the
subject of California did come up, I was dead anyway. I could get away with
saying John's visits to Minneapolis were simply because we were friends,
but if someone had found out about California, no one would believe it was
innocent, especially not the roommates I had lied to.
In the last twenty-four hours, I had found myself wishing I had never
allowed anything to happen with John and felt bad about thinking that.
Somehow my relationship with John had gone from being something I wanted to
keep quiet simply because no one would understand to a secret that I prayed
would never come out. It started as something sweet and a lot of fun but
socially unacceptable.
Then, when Paul showed up at the airport, it became something to put away,
remember fondly and hope Paul would forgive. When John went back to Cyn, it
changed colors again. It was uncomfortable, a little scary because now if
it got out, it would not be seen as something done when his marriage ended,
but as an affair during his marriage. Even when I went to England and found
how upset Paul was about it, I still couldn't regret doing it. Not really,
not down deep inside where it counted, and not when John was around. He was
by turns a clown, obnoxious, sweet, nasty, weak, strong, but no matter what
he was doing, it was still there, that sex appeal that had grabbed me when
I was sixteen and he was standing at the microphone on Ed Sullivan's stage.
I couldn't regret having a weekend to explore that to its fullest.
Oh, but now. Now it wasn't going to be just an embarrassment to me. It was
a real threat to me. If this came out, I wouldn't have a prayer of staying
in school. Any hopes I had of getting into a school in England would be
endangered. The fans would hate me in a way that would make their jealousy
over Paul seem trivial. Cyn would be hurt. And Paul had been hurt, jealous,
angry before but this would go way beyond that. He would be humiliated. He
might be able to forgive the fact that I had been with John, deal with the
fact that we were still friends, but to have the whole world know, the
whole world laughing at him? I didn't think we could survive that. That
fact alone made the decision easy. I wasn't going to tell Harry, and if it
came out, I was going to deny it. Even if that California cab driver had
somehow made the connection and was spreading it around, it was his word
against John's and mine.
Having had all day to work my way through to the conclusion that I would
tell whatever lies needed to get John out of the situation, I was ready.
“There is no need for them to leave,” I told Harry firmly. “Go ahead with
the questions.”
“All right,” he said.
Sandy and Brenda went through the list of rumors: I got to go to England
with John because I slept with him, (or with all of them, according to some
sources). I tried to break up John's marriage and convinced him to leave
Cyn and come back to the States with me.
“That is the one we heard most often,” Sandy said. “No one seemed to
believe that John and Terry were just friends, but Brenda and I were here
both times John visited. They weren't doing anything.”
I had to change the subject or my face would give everything away. “Except
of course during the Halloween orgy!” I put in with a laugh.
Brenda and Sandy burst out laughing. “That is my favorite rumor!” Brenda
laughed. “We all got drunk—”
“Or high on drugs,” Sandy put in.
“And after the party, Mark and Chuck and John had their way with all of
us!”
“Are there other rumors about drugs?” Harry asked.
“I supposedly tried drugs while I was in England,” I said.
“There is another one,” Sandy said. “She got John hooked on drugs she stole
from the hospital and that is why he followed her back to Minneapolis—to be
near his dealer.”
“I am insulted by that one,” I said. “Like the only appeal I could possibly
have is access to drugs!”
Harry smiled but said, “I can see where the hospital would not be amused at
all.”
“There is another one,” Brenda said hesitantly, looking at me
apologetically. I knew right off this was going to be one she hadn't told
me about and it would be nasty.
“When Terry came back from England, she was miserable. She cried a lot and
didn't want to go out. She didn't eat much and lost weight. She just looked
lousy. Some people started saying that it was because she had gotten hooked
on drugs and was going through withdrawal.”
That wasn't a rumor started by some demented Beatle fan or anti-Beatle
crusader. It was something that people who knew me, were around me at the
time, had discussed, had thought might be true. Hell, I would have probably
wondered the same thing if it had been a friend of mine. All Brenda and
Sandy could have done to squelch the speculation was to tell them that I
had gotten my heart broken by some mystery man I wouldn't talk about.
Before I could react to it, Sandy spoke up.
“Then there is the other story to explain it. The one that says she got
pregnant while she was in England. She came home and got an abortion.”
“Who was the alleged father?” Harry asked.
“I guess most people thought
it was John, especially after he showed up here.”
Oh, God,” I said, realizing how believable either of those stories was. I
had looked like crap and avoided everyone that first month.
There was an awkward silence and then Harry asked gently. “Any other
rumors?”
They shook their heads. I breathed a sigh of relief. In all the rumors
about John and me, the locale was England or Minneapolis. California was
never mentioned. However, there was one rumor that hadn't been discussed.
“There is one more,” I told him. “That Paul and I are sleeping together.”
Harry nodded in acknowledgment of the addition, not reacting to it any
differently than he had to any of the others, even though the body English
of my roommates would have told even a casual observer that this rumor
stood apart from the others.
He looked at each of us in turn as if giving us each one more chance to
contribute to the bonfire, then said, “Alright, Terry. The heart of this
problem is finding a way to convince the school that it is not in their
best interests to dismiss you. Battling them over whether there is truth to
the rumors won't help because true or not, the rumors are there and they
are the real concern. I have no intention of bringing up the rumors—that
isn't going to be my focus at all—but they will focus on them. All we can
do is emphasize the point that they are just rumors, that celebrities have
always been the victims of rumors, and it is unreasonable to expel you on
that basis, then move on to other things. I sincerely doubt that they have
gone to the extent of investigating the stories.” With a grin, he said,
“Religious institutions simply don't do that. They have God on their side
and don't need to prove anything.”
We laughed, but Sandy said, “That is the whole problem. They don't have to
prove anything.”
Harry shrugged. “We can't disprove the stories anyway. You can never prove
a rumor out of existence. They persist in the face of facts to the
contrary. Rumors create a public image and that is what the celebrity or
company has to deal with, not the facts. Even so, I can't walk into this
unprepared to deal with the rumors. Terry, I need to know where the truth
ends and rumor begins.”
“None of it is true!” Sandy protested hotly.
I looked squarely at Harry. “I went to England because the doctor wouldn't
let John go without a nurse along. I was able to stay in England because
Brian Epstein had arranged for me to write some articles for their fan
magazine to earn money to finish school.”
“All that can be proven easily, I assume?”
“The doctor and Brian can confirm that and I have the magazines with the
stories in them.”
“How long did you stay in England?”
“About five weeks.”
“Why so long?”
“Getting the magazine articles done took about four weeks and during that
time I started seeing Paul. I stayed to be with him but I came back a week
earlier than I was going to. We had a ... a misunderstanding and I came
home. I was really hurt because I loved him and I had thought he loved me
and it looked like he had lied to me. I did have a really bad time at
first, but I wasn't going through drug withdrawal and I was never
pregnant.”
“Is there any way to corroborate that?”
“That I wasn't on drugs or pregnant? I don't know. Anyone in England would
say that I never used drugs, but you would have a hard time getting anyone
to talk to you. None of the people close to the Beatles are going to sit
down and discuss drugs with you.”
Harry nodded in ready acknowledgment of that.
“Sandy and I were with her when she got back,” Brenda said firmly. “She
wasn't in withdrawal. She had none of the signs of that. She was just plain
miserable. Hurt and sad.”
“And not pregnant?”
I realized I could prove that. “I went to the student clinic at the U. of
M. just a couple of weeks after I got home. The records there will prove
that I was not pregnant and had not just had an abortion.”
Harry accepted that without questioning why I had gone there and went on.
“What about the stories about your relationship with John?”
“The only drugs I gave him were the prescribed pain pills and he didn't
need them after the first couple of weeks. I didn't break up John's
marriage, I didn't leave England with him, and he came here to see me
because we are friends.” That was true. I couldn't say the same about my
trip to California, but that was not on the list of rumors under
discussion. “I don't know how to prove any of that. John would tell you the
same, but if they don't believe me, they won't believe him either. Oh, and
there was no orgy after the Halloween party or any other night!”
Harry nodded and waited. I took a breath and finished. “As for the last
one, yes, Paul and I are sleeping together. They can kick me out on that
point alone.”
“Then deny it, Terry!” Sandy pleaded. “Brenda and I are the only ones who
know for certain and I'll tell them whatever you want me to.”
“No, Sandy. If they don't ask me point blank, I won't say anything, but if
they do, I have to tell the truth.”
“They aren't going to make you swear on a Bible, are they? I mean it isn't
like a real trial.”
“No, I don't think so, but I am so bad at lying. I get all red and stutter.
I just don't think I want to deny anything about my relationship with Paul
anyway. I am not ashamed of it.”
Harry held up a hand. “Hold on, hold on. In the first place, Terry won't be
at the hearing, I will. If they insist that you attend, Sandy is right, you
won't be under oath. If it were going to be sworn testimony, I would have
to instruct you in the penalty for perjury, but public relations is a
different story. You haven't been accused of a crime. Someone is trying to
hold your private life against you. It is all personal, a matter of image
and viewpoint, not law. In these situations, I tell my clients that what
they have to consider is what will happen if they lie and the truth comes
out later. They have to weigh that carefully. If they feel that to protect
themselves and others, they need to keep the truth to themselves, so be it.
When that happens, I advise them to refuse to answer any and all
accusations.”
By this point, Harry was up pacing back and forth. We watched him, almost
hearing the wheels turning in his head. “All right,” he said finally. “I'll
spend tomorrow talking to people. Some of your classmates, teachers, and
the dean. I need to find out what I can about the board members and just
who will have a say in the decision to expel you. I need to find out about
enrollment at St. Vincents, too.”
All that made sense to me until the last line. “Enrollment?” I asked.
Harry was smiling. “Enrollments. Money. Continued reputation as a leading
school. Now, if you ladies will excuse me, I have a busy day tomorrow.
Terry, go to school tomorrow but don't discuss this with anyone. Just tell
anyone who asks that you have been instructed by your lawyer not to discuss
the case with anyone. Use the words ‘lawyer' and ‘case'. Let that get back
to whoever is running the show. If you get called in to see the dean or
anyone, say the same thing. Don't answer any questions. Tell them I will be
in contact with them.” With those words, Harry picked up his coat and
briefcase. “I'll be here tomorrow evening and we'll go over the plan.”
“Paul is flying in. We have to pick him up at five.”
“Great! Maybe I'll get his autograph this time!” Harry turned to go and
then had a second thought. “I'll get him a room at my hotel. This is not
the time to add fuel to the fire, Terry.”
I nodded and he made his exit. There was nothing to do but go to bed. I
slept better just knowing that something was being done and that Paul would
be with me the next day.
Wednesday went by quietly with no summons from the dean and quiet support
from my friends. After school we headed to the airport and the now familiar
routine of checking to make sure the flight was on time, checking in with
security to make sure they would be there, waiting for the plane to land.
This time Paul came through the gate and I went into his arms and just held
onto him. He held me tight until Sandy took my arm and led us to the
waiting security transport.
“Baby, are you all right?” he asked softly as we rode through the sparse
crowd of traveling businessmen.
I smiled at him and squeezed his hand. “I am now.”
Alone in the waiting room, I kissed him, forgetting about everything else
with the feel of his mouth, the taste of his kiss, the rising heat of his
touch. Whispered words of love turned into sighs and murmurs, but in the
middle of that, I remembered. I told him that Harry had said he shouldn't
stay at the apartment and was getting him a room at the hotel. It probably
wasn't the best time to tell him that considering his current state.
“Christ, Tess,” he groaned at the news. “If I can't stay at the apartment,
I sure as hell can't bring you to my hotel room!”
“We'll think of something,” I said, feeling like it had been three months
since we had made love, not three weeks. Trying to make light of what was,
after all, not a life-threatening situation, I teased, “There is a lock on
that door."
“Security has the key.”
“The bathroom then. They won't barge in there.”
He started to laugh then. “No, love. Not nearly enough time.”
“Don't bet on it,” I said sliding my hand down his chest and past his belt.
“This is precisely the kind of behavior that got you into so much trouble.
You little sex maniac! God, I love you.” A few more kisses and then he took
my hands in his.
“We do have to be careful. If you have any chance of staying in school, we
are going to have to forget about sex until this blows over.”
I took a step back to look at him. “You think you can do that?”
“For you, yes.”
On the way home, we filled him in on our meeting with Harry and Harry
himself was waiting for us back at the apartment. Greetings were exchanged.
(“Of course I remember you, Harry. You're the bloke who stood there in
jeans and sandals
and a wrinkled shirt and told John he needed to put on a jacket and tie for
the press conference!”) I made tea for Paul and coffee for Harry and we
settled at the kitchen table to hear Harry's solution to my problem.
“I spoke with the dean today,” he reported. “The committee who makes these
decisions includes two instructors, the dean herself, the hospital V.P.,
and three of the hospital's board members. She didn't know which ones
because board members take turns sitting on this committee. I was able to
get the names of all of the board members from the hospital though. Then I
made phone calls to their secretaries saying it was necessary to change the
time of their meeting at St. Vincent's on Friday and found out which ones
actually had such a meeting scheduled.”
We commented in appreciation of Harry's resourceful sleuthing, and he went
on. “We have one banker, one priest, one businessman. Now how will they and
the instructors vote? That is the question.”
“Which instructors?” I asked.
“Berghoff and Hawkins.”
I groaned. “That's two votes against me then. Berghoff will love kicking me
out. Hawkins is nice, but she won't stand up against the others.”
“What if Sister Ignatius votes in your favor?”
“If she does, Hawkins will go along with her, but I don't think Sister
Ignatius will.”
“I wouldn't be too certain of that,” Harry said. “She was very professional
and refused to discuss who was stirring up the board, but that cagey woman
deliberately tipped her hand when she volunteered the information that you
have been an excellent student, well-liked by your teachers. All of your
end of semester reports by clinical instructors indicate that you will make
a first-rate nurse. I sensed a real distaste in her for what is going on
and she confirmed it a little later when she said that in her investigation
of your case in the last few days she found out about the situation between
you and Mrs. Berghoff. She said that such misuse of authority was
unacceptable and that she was following up with Mrs. Berghoff on the
matter. So, that leaves the four gentlemen. Except for the priest, they are
businessmen and I think I can convince them that you should stay on as a
matter of good business management. If the hospital V.P. and the priest
hold out, I call it five to two in your favor.”
I shook my head. “Four to three at best. Sister Ignatius may be in my
corner, but Berghoff won't back down.”
“No, I am quite certain we have Sister Ignatius and Sister Ignatius has
Mrs. Berghoff. Her parting words to me were ‘By the way, Mr. Weinberger. I
do not listen to rumors but I do find notebooks about misuse of authority
very interesting reading. As I plan to mention to Mrs. Berghoff, such
things have a way of preventing the renewal of teaching contracts unless
amends are made.' Not only will she vote in your favor, but she will also
pressure Berghoff to do the same. Even if Berghoff decides to be a martyr
for her cause, I am still confident of both the banker and businessman.
Odds are we won't lose both Bergman and one of those two gentlemen. I call
it four to three at the worst and think we have a good chance at five to
two.”
Paul spoke up. “So the dean will take care of Berghoff, but how do you plan
to deal with the businessmen?”
“Public opinion is what they are afraid of, and public opinion is a
two-edged sword. It can work for us as well as against us. All we have to
do is let them see the other side of the blade, see how they will appear in
the eyes of the public when we tell the world what they have done. I start
off by saying that, like them, I deal in the business world. I know little
about schools and nothing of nursing, but I know finance. I know that a
school's product is its students and it can't produce them without
enrollments. Then I bring it around to your situation. First I point out
that they are acting on rumor—unproven, unsubstantiated rumor. Not opinion
polls, not market sampling, but rumor. That is bad business practice, and
for them, it is especially bad. It is uncharitable, unchristian, etc. If
they act on these rumors, they not only leave themselves open for a
defamation of character suit, but their respectable organization suddenly
becomes a hypocritical, unfeeling, unfair, rigid, institution that no
parent would submit his daughter to, especially not when there are seven
other well-respected nursing schools in the city as well as a university
offering one of the best Bachelor's programs in nursing in the country.”
His comments about enrollment made sense and I decided that even if Harry
couldn't pull this off, he certainly knew his business.
“Second,” Harry went on, “I point out that even though parents may write
out the checks for their daughter's education, girls these days will not be
forced to attend a school not of their choosing. I will invite them to do
what I did today; talk to high school girls, find out how they feel about
Tess Martin. Oh, yes, they have heard the rumors, discussed them at length,
even passed them on, but believe them? No, not really. They may be jealous,
but they love the idea that a nice, ordinary girl just like them can get
Prince Charming.”
Paul looked at me with a grin at the reference to Prince Charming as Harry
finished. “How many of these girls will agree to go to the school that
kicked a girl out because she was in love with Paul McCartney? Regardless
of the rumors, that is what they will remember about St. Vincent's.”
“The businessman, banker, and hospital administrator will all say ‘Ah, but
Mr. Weinberger, St. Vincent's will be around long after the Beatles are
replaced by some other noisy screamers,'” Paul said.
“St. Vincent's yes,” Harry replied as though speaking to those board
members, “but the nursing school? Your new dormitory was built on
predictions of increasing enrollment by thirty percent in the next three
years. What happens if that enrollment does not materialize? I fear it
won't if you go ahead with this. Your potential students of the next three
years are out there buying Tiger Beat and Beatles records today.”
“Excuse me, Mr. Weinberger,” I put in, joining Paul as a devil's advocate,
“but you are overlooking the basic fact that Miss Martin violated the
rules; sexual activity and associating with drug users.”
“Why Mrs. Berghoff, you have proof of these accusations? Hearsay is not
proof. Speculation is not proof. Those statements are not as bizarre as
some of the stories going around about Miss Martin, but they are still only
rumor. As I have pointed out to your colleagues, it is not wise for an
institution to act on rumor. Very unwise when it could trigger a defamation
of character suit.”
“Harry,” I protested. “I am not going to sue them for defamation of
character! I'd lose!”
“They don't know that! All they need to know is that it is going to cost
them to get rid of you. These are businessmen, Terry. They won't touch it.”
“You are underestimating how unreasonable people can be when it comes to
the Beatles.”
Paul answered me with a rueful laugh, “Bankers excluded, Tess. They only
see the money.”
I was still unsure, and Harry went on. “In summary, ladies and gentlemen,
you were called here to make a decision about a student, a student whose
record is excellent and who is considered by her instructors to have the
makings of the kind of nurse St. Vincent's is proud of, a student whose
only crime is that she is the victim of vicious rumors because she is about
to marry a celebrity. I am here to tell you that the decision you are
making is not only about the student but about St. Vincent's. Expelling her
will indeed assure that St. Vincent's has a reputation for tolerating only
the highest morals. It will also give you a reputation for unfairness,
unreasonableness and a lack of caring about your students among the very
age group on which your school's financial future depends. It will expose
you to a costly lawsuit for defamation of character. Is it worth it to ruin
the career of a promising nurse, subject the hospital to financial loss and
legal costs because celebrities always have been and always will be the
subjects of gossip? No, this doesn't make sense, morally or financially.”
Brenda and Sandy broke into applause and cries of “Bravo, bravo,” and
“Stand back Perry Mason!”
When it was quiet again, Paul turned to me and asked, “What do you want to
do, Tess? You can resign tomorrow or let Harry give it a try.”
I couldn't resist. I smiled up at him. “If I resign tomorrow, you can stay
here tonight."
He looked at me for no more than a couple of seconds, then got up, picked
up Harry's coat and briefcase and made as if to hustle him out the door.
“Thanks for your time, Harry, but I guess we won't be needing you after
all. Ta.”
Brenda grabbed Harry's other arm and pulled him back. “Stay put, Harry.
Cold shower, Paul!”
“I've taken so damn many cold showers the last few months, I've got
frostbite on my—”
“Enough!” Sandy shrieked. “I don't want to hear what is frostbitten!”
“Toes,” Paul said with that look of angelic innocence that came so
naturally to him. “Whatever were you thinking, Luv?”
While we laughed and Sandy blushed, Harry said, “I say we go have dinner
and give Terry some time to think things over.”
Just as Paul had in London, we had found a good restaurant nearby where the
manager would let us use the private dining room as long as it wasn't
reserved for a party. Over dinner, Harry wouldn't tell us about other
celebrities he had worked with but enthusiastically talked about the work
he did as a volunteer for the Civil Liberties Union and with the Civil
Rights movement. He laughingly waved away our notions that he had marched
in Selma or been an activist in that sense. “I admire those people who go
out and take the risks, but without the law, they can't win. When the
freedom rides and riots are over, the future of segregation in the country
will be settled in the courts.”
He was a fascinating guy but my mind was elsewhere, going over and over the
decision I had to make. Our dinners were served, but I wasn't hungry, not
for food anyway. It was sweet torture to sit next to Paul, his hand either
in mine or on my knee, but even that appetite was diminished by uneasy
thoughts. I wasn't sure why, but I had a nagging feeling that fighting this
would somehow be wrong. I wasn't paying much attention to the dinner
conversation or dinner and Paul noticed.
“Are you all right, love?” he asked.
“Fine. I'm fine,” I said. “Just thinking.”
“You've got a great lawyer here,” Brenda said. “You have to give this a
try!”
“I agree about the lawyer,” I said with a smile for Harry, “but, I don't
know. I just don't feel really good about going ahead with this. I feel ...
dishonest.”
“Come on, Terry,” Sandy coaxed. “You won't even have to be there, so you
won't have to lie.”
I knew then why I was uncomfortable with this. “I don't have to be there to
make it a lie. Even if Harry does all the talking, even if he doesn't deny
the rumors, it is a lie. I did break the rules. I might not agree with the
rules, with their requirements for morality, but they are within their
rights to throw me out.”
There was an awkward silence. Harry reached across the table and squeezed
my hand. “Terry, the stuff about associating with drug users is crap. None
of the Beatles has ever been arrested for drug use, and that is the only
thing that would make that part of the morals clause hold water. Unless
they are planning to subject every student to the same character check or
do physical exams and expel everyone who isn't a virgin, then they cannot
single you out for expulsion. If they show any sign of dragging your degree
of intimacy into it, I can shut them down with that simple legal fact. ”
I turned to look at Paul. Only he knew what rules I had broken and with
whom. He just looked at me, looking unhappy as he did with any reminder of
me with John. “Let it go, love,” he said softly.
Brenda spoke up. “Harry is right. They aren't doing this because of what
you have done. It is only because of who you did it with and that isn't
fair.” Something about the way she said made me wonder if she and Mark had
broken down and had sex. She sounded like she was thinking that she was
another rule breaker and no one was even thinking of expelling her.
They were both right. I was feeling bad because of what I had done with
John, not with Paul, and it was time to get over it. I couldn't undo it and
it was time to move on. Moreover, I was certain I was not the only
non-virgin who had ever passed through St. Vincent's hallowed halls.
“They shouldn't be expelling me anyway,” I declared firmly. “I am a good
nurse! I want to fight this, Harry.”
It was after eight when we left the restaurant. We returned to the
apartment and as Harry's big car unloaded us, Harry said, “I can give you a
ride to the hotel if you like, Paul.”
“Fine,” he said, to my dismay. “Let me get my bags out of Tess's car.”
I followed him to my car, dug out my keys and opened the trunk for him. “I
don't want you to go,” was all I could think to say.
Instead of picking up his suitcase he put his arms around me. “I don't want
to go but there is a car down the street with someone watching us.”
As if on cue, a man with the unmistakable big camera of a reporter got out
of a car and headed toward us. My argument that it would be a day or so
before anyone knew he was in town died unspoken. Why did the local press
have to choose this time to suddenly become competent?
“At least let me drive you to the motel,” I said.
He grinned. “Got a cemetery in mind, love?”
“No,” I sighed. “I just want some time alone with you."
He bent to kiss me, a quick little kiss because the reporter was closing in
fast. He whispered in my ear. “Five minutes alone with you and I'll have
blue balls for sure. It's been way too long for anything except getting you
into bed. Besides, I'm knackered. Let me get some sleep. We'll figure out
something tomorrow.” He let go of me and lifted his suitcases out of the
trunk as the reporter snapped the first photo then greeted him.
Paul talked to him and I lifted Paul's guitar case out of the trunk. The
reporter tried to get information on how long Paul planned to say but Paul
easily slid away from the question as he went to put his things in Harry's
trunk. I just smiled because the presence of the guitar case told me Paul
was staying for a while. Harry closed the trunk, and Paul opened the car
door to get in. The damn reporter stood there and all I could do is give
Paul a chaste little goodnight kiss.