In 1965, at age fifteen, I was emancipated with my father's blessing. This meant basically that I was able to live where I wanted and could not be arrested for truancy. Also, I could work full time as an adult. There may have been other implications but those were the three I cared about. I was not done learning but I was sure done with school.
Just before Christmas, I was staying with a gay gentleman, Hollywood, one of several friends who were looking out for me, protecting me from the riff-raff. If you knew my friends you might think they were riff-raff but I trusted them implicitly. Hollywood remained a dear friend until he died a few years ago, aged eighty.
Anyway, I had a minor infection as a result of an accident between a Corvair and my bicycle. You can't hear a Corvair sneaking up behind you. Hollywood took me to a doctor for treatment. Unbeknownst to the doctor or I, I am extremely allergic to an antibiotic, the very one that was prescribed to me. Take one, three times a day. After two I did nothing but vomit and sleep.
Hollywood recognised this as abnormal behaviour and carried me immediately to a nurse friend for advice. He put me down on the porch and rang the bell. A man answered, saw me and said, "Hang on. Candy!!!" I knew it was a man because of his well-polished black loafers and his voice. I was not raising my head to see above anyone's knees at this point. If I could stop the porch from spinning I might have given it a shot.
A woman in a nurse's uniform, presumably Candy, appeared, looked at me, and said, "You poor dear, what happened?" Hollywood told her about the pills and showed her the bottle. "Edward," she said, probably to the well-polished shoes, "Can you take this girl to the hospital? I have to be in the theatre in half an hour. Hollywood will look after the kids, won't you, dear?"
Now, I can't swear to the exact wording of this, I could barely hear it, but that was pretty much what transpired. Hollywood placed me in the back of a car which set off at a brisk pace to, if I remember rightly, University Hospital. I spent several days in the hospital, mostly because I couldn't give them an address I could go to.
The first friend I bumped into on leaving the hospital took me home with her and kept me for two weeks. One day she brought Hollywood back with her. He took one look at me and burst into tears.
"Oh, baby girl," he said, and hugged me. "I was so worried."
"I couldn't get back to your place, Joanne has been taking care of me. Thank you so much for what you did."
"Oh, I understand. I knew you would land on your feet. You always do. You are so welcome. But what else could I do? My reputation would have suffered if you had died in my spare room. Not because you had died, but because you are a girl. And here is your Christmas present." What a present it was; a boxed set of A.A. Milne, the first of many I've owned over the years. I always give them away to someone whose need is greater than mine.
Eight months later I got a very special birthday present, but that is another story.
In early September of 1966, I was enjoying a coffee and the Indian summer weather in the Village when a strange man walked up to me and said, "Hello Grace. You look much better today."
I looked up and said "Huh?" which of course is Latin for "what?" I don't have a good memory, never have had, but I was positive I had not seen that face before. The stranger, who looked to be ten years older than me, was six feet tall, with Beatle-cut sandy hair, blue eyes, an aquiline nose, and the most beautiful ears. He wore a pinstriped charcoal suit, pink shirt and a navy blue tie. When I looked down I saw well-polished black loafers. Edward.