Modern Screen (Jan-Dec 1960)

girl," your father said. He smiled. "From real life," he said. "Like what do you remember." Kenny asked. " — best of all?" ''little things," your father said. He thought for a moment. "The way her and I were buddies when she was small." ''Lake us?" Kenny asked. "Like us." your father said. And then he said: "The way I used to call her Cookie sometimes — just like I call you sometimes . . The way, when she first started school, I used to help her with her homework, especially the additions and subtractions, in arithmetic . . . The way I used to read her stories from those big fairy tale books, about the people who always ended up living happily ever after. She really liked those! . . . The way we used to go to the park together on nice days and buy popsicles, one for her and one for me " Your father stopped. "What else do you remember about my sister. Sandra Dee?" Kenny persisted. "What else?" your father asked. "Well, I remember." he said. "I remember how when she was small, like you, I used to work as a bus driver then. And how sometimes I used to bring her on my route with me. let her sit in the seat next to where I did. All the way from Jersey City to New York and back again. That long a ride " "What else. Daddy?" Kenny asked. "When she was first born — I remember that, too." your father said. "She was born right here in this house. I mean, she was bom in the Margaret Hague Hospital over in Jersey City. But she lived in this house from the day she came home. And boy. that day she came home. I was carrying her. from the car. And I was pretty young, and nervous. And scared, too, I guess. And as I was carrying her. I was just outside the front door when all of a sudden I almost tripped and dropped her." Kenny laughed a little boy's laugh. You almost dropped her?" he asked. "Yes." your father said, not laughing. "And you know what I swore then?" His voice trailed off a little here. "I swore then that I'd never let my baby go ... or let anything bad ever happen to her." "And what else?" Kenny asked, impatiently. "I remember the first time she did get hurt," your father said then. "Downstairs. The front door. Sandy, she always had a habit of wanting to open that door by putting her hand on the glass and pushing, instead of on the knob. I used to warn her about this. But one day — it was a Sunday. I remember; Sandv'd been playing over at Mrs. Skranko's house, next door — and I was inside, here. And I heard this crash. And I ran out, and there was Sandy — she'd come back from Mrs. Skranko's — and her hands had gone through the glass pane of the door and were all bleeding. I yelled at her at first. 'See. I told you.' I said. And then I picked her up and carried her to the sink and put her hands under the cold water. And then I bandaged them. And kissed them." Again he stopped. "Daddy." Kenny asked, "don't you think my sister will come and see us today?" "I don't know. Son," your father said. "Doesn't she like us, Daddy?" Kennyasked. And before your father had a chance to answer, Kenny said, "Sure she likes us. And you know what. Daddy — she is going to come to see us." He got into your father's lap. "I promise. Daddy, she is," he said. And so, Sandra, for the next few hours, they waited. Your father and little brother \vsited. And continued waiting. . . . The Sondra Dee day And you, Sandra. You, meanwhile — this is what you were doing those hours: At 9:30, or a few minutes after, your limousine pulled up to the Lexington Shop, a lingerie store, just across from the DeWitt Theater where you would appear that night. You posed outside the store in the shivering cold for a few minutes and then you went inside and signed autographs and greeted old friends for about half an hour. At ten o'clock you got back into the car and drove over to P.S. 3, the school you'd attended when you were a little girl. Those were a touching two hours that followed. So touching that you broke down and cried when you stepped onto that stage in the big old auditorium and when a couple of hundred kids rose and gave you the biggest ovation you've ever received. It was here where Dr. Phillips, the principal, made his speech of welcome; where Ronald Bressler, S boy you'd attended school with, made his. Where your three favorite teachers— Mrs. Sharf. Mrs. Pearl and Mrs. Tierney — came onto the stage to say hello. Where nine little girls came out then and sang and tapdanced to a song written specially for you. Where Elaine Kunecz, another student, presented you with a loving cup inscribed: To Sandra Dee, Famed Screen Actress. Who Brought Renown To Her City. Yes. they were a touching two hours. As were the two hours that followed, over at the big Industrial YMCA on Avenue E, where the Kiwanis Club of Bayonne gave a luncheon in your honor. Where you sat on the dais, flanked by local bigwigs and tons of flowers and looked down at the table directly beneath you, where your mother sat, and your great-grandfather, and your grandmother and grandfather, and your Uncle Peter and Aunt Olga, and your cousins Hope and Michael, all of them proud, so proud. Proud. And smiling. And even laughing when, at one point. Bob Brown. WNTA disk jockey and master of ceremonies at the luncheon, asked you: "Sandra, back in Hollywood, when those chi-chi actresses say, Tm from Budapest . . . I'm from Paris . . . I'm from Rome' — what do you say?" And you yelled out: "Bayonne, that's what I tell 'em!" Proud. And smiling. And laughing — your family. Or rather, half your family. For remember, Sandra, that over in the little apartment on West Twenty-fourth I Street, John Zuck, your father, and Kenny j Zuck. your brother, were still waiting J for you. . . . 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