Why This Book?
Conrad had come up with the idea that I should write a book. After all, writing was something that came easily to me. Patti would have to let me interview her, he had said, if I were writing a biography about her. Unless she wanted it to be an unauthorized one, but why wouldn’t she want to increase her chances of looking good in the book by deigning to talk with me?
I hadn’t liked the idea much. I agreed, of course, that a book about Patti was long overdue. She had had an interesting life, and was such a special performer, that she definitely deserved it. But for me to start writing a biography of her seemed too much like an attempt to manipulate Patti into meeting me, and I didn’t want to do that. As much as I adored her, I didn’t want to put so much energy into that endeavor.
Besides, a memoir by Patti herself about her life would be infinitely more interesting.
No, if Patti was ever going to meet me, it was going to have to be because of things I had accomplished in my life following my passions, not by my simply taking a drastic manipulative measure. This was what I said to Conrad right now.
“I don’t want to do a research project. It’s like a homework assignment. I’m not writing a book report about her. The point is, I have to use the inspiration she gave me. She has to be intrigued by what I’ve become, either because it’s just intriguing or because she’s the one who inspired it. It can’t be just some random thing like someone forces her to meet me because they’re paying her to, or because she feels like she has to.”
We fell silent for a moment.
Conrad said, “You remember after you gave Patti the bobblehead doll and she hadn’t thanked you yet, and I was saying we should write to her?”
“Yeah.”
“What if I told you that I did write to her and ask her to let us know if she got it? How upset would you be?”
I sat straight up.
“Is that what you’re telling me?”
Conrad hesitated as if gauging his odds.
“Maybe . . .” he said.
“Oh my God, did you? Do you still have it? Get it! Get it!” I punched him on the shoulder and bounced up and down on the bed.
He got up and ran downstairs. A minute later I heard the printer.
“You’re not pissed?” he asked on his breathless return.
“No! Well, let me see.” I snatched the paper he held out.
“You’re not really mad?” Conrad persisted.
I sighed.
“. . . No,” I finally whispered. My eyes were suddenly full of tears.
“Would you have been at the time? That I, you know, meddled?”
“Maybe. I don’t know.” I said.
What I did know is that now, nine months after the fact, I felt completely touched to find he had done this. I was as moved as if he had given me an expensive piece of jewelry and a romantic floral bouquet.
I felt it was one of the most romantic things that anyone had ever done for me, actually. It was so incredibly kind and selfless. That he cared for me that much, to do that, and had stayed silent for so long about it, just moved me. I had never thought, not even in my wildest fantasies growing up, that I would be married to someone whose love for me was so true that they would do something like that, help me find the love I was looking for, however ridiculously, from someone else.
He really was remarkable. My marriage was definitely one of the most extraordinary things in my life. He reminded me of it constantly with his emotional involvement in my obsession with Patti.
How I wished I could tell everyone what an amazing husband I had.
I looked at him and suddenly I couldn’t keep from smiling ear to ear.
“What?”
“The book . . .” I said slowly.
“You’re right, it’s too much work,” he said, waving his hand as if waving the idea aside.
“No, this should be in the book. That you did this.”
“How does this fit into a biography?”
“It’s not a biography.”
