Photoplay (Jan-Jun 1955)

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On this exquisite spring day, she would cheer herself with the sure knowledge that very soon she’d be out again, with the other kids, going down to the ballroom to listen to that wonderful band leader with the curly hair who had played and whom she adored. Or she’d be going out on the scrimmage field to watch the boys try out, and maybe that brown-eyed fellow with the broad shoulders would be there and maybe this time he’d smile at her, even if he was three whole years older than she. And of course she’d see Jerry Doherty. Why, by June, she and Jerry could certainly go out on the road again, the very day school closed. Five hundred dollar prizes here in Cincinnati they’d won when they were a mere fourteen. But now . . . She stopped, electrified with her dream. Hey, now she could sing as well as dance. Just suppose, as she danced, she sang something like this “Embraceable You.” And just suppose she taught Jerry to sing something like, well, something like, “I’ve Got You under My Skin.” Goodness knows, she could teach Jerry to sing, for what could be simpler? You just controlled your breath a bit, as Grace Raine had taught her. You opened your mouth. You pronounced the words clearly. That was all there was to it. But in hers and Jerry’s act, it would be terrif! “Wow,” said Dorothy Kapplehoff, jumping with excitement. Then it happened. The crutches fell away from her. She screamed, as her bad leg gave way beneath her. “Mom,” she screamed. The floor seemed to rise up and hit her just as she fainted. She was a different girl, eight months later, when the doctor finally took that second cast off her leg. Her whole world was different. H«r mother and father had separated. It wasn’t one of those friendly things that people talked about in Hollywood. Mom and Pop didn’t talk at all. They lived in different parts of Cincinnati now, that was all. And her brother Paul was talking about the possibility of war in Europe and how it might affect all their lives. And her classmates had gone along so far in school without her, she knew she could never overtake them. As for the boys, well Jerry had other interests now, and that man of the world, nineteen, who worked in the drugstore, she couldn’t even find trace of him. “You could have a career,” her mother said, when she told her all these sorrows. “One thing these eight months have done for you, darling, is make your voice better and better.” “But what could I do, limping around.” “You won’t keep on limping. Besides, who will know on radio? Grace Raine can get you a job down at Station WLW. She’s told me so.” “Oh, Mom, darling, can she do it? Can I do it? Do you really think I can? Just till I get married, of course.” “Of course, just till you get married,” her mother said. Being on radio was heaven. Just sheer heaven. It almost didn’t seem right to Dorothy, taking money for doing some thing she loved doing so very much. Just standing there, singing, making believe the room in the radio station was a terrific tropical beach on a terrific, warm moonlight night or maybe a room in a New York penthouse, overlooking the whole city and rain falling against the windows, while she sat all cozy and warm in front of a glowing fireplace with the man of her dreams. “Why don’t you try making a few records?” her mother said to her after a few months. “I could, couldn’t I, Mom? Maybe I could send them out to some of those big recording agencies or other stations. Maybe they’d want me for something — just till I get married, of course.” “Oh, sure,” said her mother. “Just till you get married.” Dorothy was crazy about all the really big singers. Frankie. Bing. Perry Como. Dinah Shore. She bought all their records, played them constantly, listened to them eternally on radio. But when she got her own finished records, she didn’t have enough nerve to send a pressing to any of them. From some resource within her brain, she got the idea of sending one to Bob Crosby. He just sounded so friendly, and his band was so keen. Her own pet of what she had recorded was “With the Wind and the Rain in Your Hair.” She sent that one to Bob where he was playing, the Blackhawk in Chicago. Her note said, “I love your band. I’d like to sing with you.” This was fresh, she knew. She signed the note “Doris Day,” the name Barney Rapp had given her before he’d let her sing a bit with his band. Barney had discovered her right there in Cincinnati, through a song plugger who’d come round to the radio station. She’d sung “Day after Day” for him, and Barney had said she was okay, but her name Kapplehoff had to go. Barney had given her “Day” from the song. Her mom had given her “Doris” from Doris Kenyon, Mom’s movie favorite, and “Doris Day” was then in business. But Bob Crosby was big time! Two days later, she got his wire. “Come on up,” it said. She went. Like the radio show, it was heaven, being the canary with the band, the only girl among a lot of fellows. Of course, most of the fellows were very much married, but still. . . Fun, too, learning how to dress. Learning how to travel. One-night stands, the fellows in the band said they got to be a bore after a while, like audiences got to be a bore, too. But she hadn’t hit that point yet. It was all a ball to her. Especially since now both her legs were just fine, like her over-all health. Good shaped legs they were, too. Only Bob wanted to get back to California, off the grind for a while. What would she do when the tour ended? Go back to Cincinnati? The kids she knew there now seemed too young. Her twenties were still a long way off, but she felt so worldly. Just then, the call from Les Brown — Les Brown and his Band of Renown — reached her. Golly! Les Brown wanted her. Her, Dorothy Kapplehoff. No, no. She, Doris Day. She accepted in a big, fast flash. She came in to the first morning’s rehearsal call with Les Brown and his Band of Renown and the fellows were all lolling around, just as they did at rehearsals with Bob’s band. “Hi,” they all said to her. All except one. Name of A1 Jordan, that one. He had brown eyes, black hair, beautiful teeth and a Ford converti