Promise Me

by Nancy G. Brinker

  In the management of a multimillion-dollar corporation or the emotion-fueled solar system of a giant nonprofit foundation, a firm grip on reality must be maintained. Certainly, a key component to managing one’s own cancer treatment or the treatment of a loved one is managing expectations, which means chiseling some kind of reality-based tunnel between statistics and hope. There’s no practical value in leaping to unlikely conclusions, whether you’re talking about a fantastically unlikely good thing—such as a little girl with a dollar-and-a-half tennis racket achieving a Grand Slam—or an extremely unlikely bad thing—such as a back spasm turning out to be ovarian cancer.

  To keep the chessboard moving and for the sake of our own sanity, when we hear hoofbeats, we think horses. It’s reasonable to think horses. It’s comforting to think horses. But it’s sadly self-limiting—and occasionally dangerous—to pretend zebras don’t exist.

  Perhaps the legacy of Little Mo is the ability to keep both feet firmly on the asphalt while maintaining an unquestioning belief in the extraordinary. I see it in her daughters and in the children who compete in the “Little Mo” International Open.

  I saw it in Norman, and he helped me see it in myself.

  ∼ 10 ∼

  Flying into Love

  The people staring at us from the neighboring tables at Chateaubriand eventually finished their lunches and made their way out. Norman and I lingered in the empty dining room. He listened and laughed as I told him about selling Girl Scout cookies with Boppie, riding horses with Suzy—the quiet adventure of my family’s life together. I don’t remember him glancing once at his watch.

  He told me about his childhood in Roswell, New Mexico, about learning to jump horses with a Western saddle, and learning to play polo with the Ivy League boys. He talked about the navy, Little Mo, his children, his faith, and his booming business. Norman had invested $5,500 in the start-up of Steak & Ale in 1966. Ten years later, it was turning over millions of dollars in annual sales. Now he’d been brought into the Pillsbury Corporation and was on a fast track to the top of the second-largest food service company in the world. The business thrilled and energized him; he told restaurant war stories with the same relish as he told horse war stories, punctuating them with “Brinker Principles” like:

  Begin with the end in mind.

  Let natural curiosity lead the way.

  And my favorite: 2 + 2 = 5.

  Oh, how I would learn the truth of that one in years to come! Susan G. Komen for the Cure epitomizes the idea that the whole is far greater than the sum of its parts. Norman’s business philosophy—which was really a way of life—fascinated me. So much of what he said resonated the way practical wisdom does when it connects with something you already know deep in your heart.

  “Well, Norman,” I said finally. “This has been delightful, but it’s time for me to get my son from school.”

  We stood up, and I thought about giving him one of those casual hugs you give a man with potential—just enough to let him know what’s what and sneak a deep breath near his collar—but while I was debating it, Norman offered his hand.

  “It’s been a pleasure, Nancy. I’m intrigued.”

  The grip was warm and firm, purposeful, but not like he was doing it on purpose. I could still feel it after he let go. We walked out into the sunshine and handed the valet our parking stubs. As we waited for our cars, Norman regarded me with his tilted smile.

  “I like your hair,” he said.

  “Thank you.” Of course, I felt the usual compulsion to say something about how out-of-control it was, but I felt a sharp glance from Suzy. She’d worked hard for years to teach me that thank you is the only proper response to a compliment.

  “There’s a surfeit of blondes in this town,” said Norman. “It’s refreshing to see a beautiful brunette.”

  The valet limped an ancient blue station wagon to the curb. When it lurched to a stop, the tailpipe bobbed like it was about to fall off, and something dark dribbled from the undercarriage. The valet hopped out and handed the keys to Norman. I laughed till I had tears in my eyes.

  “Okay, now I’m intrigued,” I said. “Would you like to have dinner with me?”

  “I would, but …” He hesitated, then shook his head. “I’m not free to do that right now.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’ll call you when I get back from Argentina.”

  “When is that?”

  “Mid-November.”

  It sounded like a long time. I’d never made a practice of sitting by the phone, and I wasn’t about to start now. But two days later, Norman called.

  “Hey, Bruni. Let’s go riding before I leave for Argentina.”

  Heading out to the barn, he noted that we had a “well-matched stride,” and I laughed, because I was thinking the same thing. I was thinking a lot of things. Now I wondered if he was thinking, too, and it soon became apparent that he was.

  I hadn’t been on a horse in a while, but everything I’d always loved about riding lifted me up the moment I was in the saddle. It meant something to me that Norman didn’t give me some docile old trudger, just as it meant something to me that Dr. Blumenschein never condescended when we talked science. My mount was as high-spirited as Norman’s, and we lit out across the meadow shoulder to shoulder. Every once in a while, we slowed down to talk, easily picking up threads of conversation, revisiting some topics from our long lunch.

  Norman was the single smartest man I’d ever met. He was a staunch conservative, but not the miserly kind; he was the same sort of old-school Republican my father was, a product of the Land of Opportunity, who genuinely believed in personal responsibility, civic duty, and the rising tide that floats all boats. He was a generous listener and an animated talker. I’d always thought he cut a pretty fine figure in his tux, but now I was seeing him in his natural habitat. Norman belonged outdoors. He wore his hat well and rode with the kind of confidence that makes a horse relaxed and brave. It was the sexiest thing I’d ever seen.

  “Thank you for this, Norman.” I must have said it a dozen times that afternoon. “It feels so good to be outside, stretching my legs and doing something.”

  I lay in bed that night, my whole body singing with life, my brain revving on everything we’d talked about, my heart opening up for the first time in years. Mae West used to say a man’s kiss is his signature, and that was true of Norman. He was foursquare, straightforward, curious, unafraid. For the first time in my life, I felt like I could return a kiss without holding back. I was “snowed,” as Suzy would have said: completely smitten, full of oxygen and light.

  “Suzy? I think I love this man.” I ached with everything I wanted to tell her. “If he doesn’t call me when he gets back, …”

  The phone rang.

  “I was thinking about you,” said Norman.

  “I was thinking about you, too.”

  “Want to go riding with me tomorrow?”

  “I want to do everything with you tomorrow.”

  “Careful. A reckless man would take you up on that.”

  “I dare you.”

  “Keep your boots on, Bruni. I can’t get involved in anything until after the election.”

  “I understand,” I said, and I did. It wouldn’t work to have gossip distracting from his goals right now. I stretched, holding the phone close to my cheek. “My mother says if we lose Carter, we lose our soul. Daddy says Reagan is our only hope for solvency.”

  “Your daddy and I are going to get along just fine,” said Norman. “Which side of the line are you on?”

  “I don’t believe there is a line. I vote my conscience. Right now, I have one political flour sifter: What’s best for women with breast cancer? Republican or Democrat, he or she, I don’t care where they stand on oil embargos, cattle prods, or how to fry an egg.”

  “Maybe that works on a local level, but in a presidential election, you have to set aside special interests and look at the big picture. It’s rationale like that that got us into
the state we’re in with this economy.”

  “Norman, I’m not saying that if Idi Amin could cure breast cancer, I’d be out campaigning for him, but … wait a minute. When do you leave for Argentina? Norman, you won’t miss voting, will you? Absentee ballots don’t have the same zing. Not for a presidential election.”

  “I’m going the day after.”

  “Thank goodness. I’m not sure I could marry a man who votes absentee.”

  He huffed a startled chuff of laughter. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Why do people always say that? What are they worried about—falling off a cliff? Stepping on their own shadows? I want to get ahead of myself, Norman. I’ve been trying my whole life to leave myself in the rearview mirror and speed up to the person I’m supposed to be. Suzy’s the only one who ever dug that about me. Other people tell me I’m being intense.”

  “You are intense,” said Norman. “That’s what I like about you. Drive, passion—that’s how you get somewhere in this world.”

  He was quiet for a moment.

  “Let’s go riding tomorrow,” he said. “I have to meet this guy to go over some building plans, but after that—well, we’d have to eat in, but if you don’t mind my cooking, we could have dinner.”

  “That sounds nice.”

  It was nice.

  We rode all afternoon, and Norman noted with pleasure that I took no longer than he did to shower, change, and get ready to meet the real estate developer. After dinner, Norman and I sat in front of the fire for a long time. Talking sometimes, sometimes not talking. I drifted off with my head on his shoulder, feeling like I’d never lived anywhere else. When I mumbled something to that effect, he pressed his mouth to the top of my head.

  “I’m looking forward to seeing where you go,” he said. “Once you figure out how to settle down and focus your efforts. You’ve got a lot of potential.”

  “So do you, Norman. So much inside you waiting to come out.”

  He laughed that wide-open laugh. “I can’t believe you said that. You’re incredible.”

  “I need to go. School night for the babysitter.”

  “Hey, Bruni.” He caught my hand as I got up to go. “Come with me to Argentina.”

  “I appreciate the offer, Norman, but I won’t travel with a man who’s not my husband. I wasn’t brought up that way. And my son’s not being brought up that way either.”

  Norman nodded and walked me out to my car. “I’ll call you when I get back.”

  “Who knows? I might be married to someone else by then.”

  “Not a chance,” he said. “You’re not everyone’s cup of tea.”

  “All right. Fine. I’ll marry you.”

  “On the other hand, there might be somebody out there crazier than me. Better let this dog hunt.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked Suzy as I drove to work the next day. “Let this dog hunt. I’ve been in Texas for twelve years. I thought I’d heard all the cryptic ranching aphorisms. Seriously, Suz. Am I the dog? Am I the hunter? Am I the subject of said hunt? I don’t get it.”

  She’d been gone three months now. It was getting harder to hear the things she used to say, and that disturbed me. So much had happened since she died—her death itself being the most profoundly ground-shaking event of my life—and now here was this new thing. I was free-falling in love the way she’d always wished for me. When I was with Norman, I was completely happy. When I was alone, I kept tripping over little potholes of loss. Places where Suzy wasn’t. Moments that didn’t include her.

  Jewish tradition doesn’t embrace the idea of a literal afterlife where souls are assigned to either Heaven or Hell, but there’s a lot of room in reformed thought for all kinds of possibilities, including Einstein’s assertion that energy can’t be destroyed, only transformed. Suzy’s energy was formidable; the transformation of it had to cause a ripple somewhere in the universe. But where?

  “I keep trying to feel her,” I told Mom. “You know how people say they feel the presence of a loved one who’s passed away.”

  “Oh, I know,” she sighed. “Someone in the grocery store told me she was always finding pennies, and she just knew it was a sign from her dead husband. I scrutinized every penny I saw for days. Seemed more like a sign of how low the value of a penny is. Not even worth a knee bend for most people who drop one.”

  “I didn’t think I could ever be happy again, and now whenever I am happy, I feel like a traitor.”

  “Oh, sweetheart, that’s just … meshugah. Not right in the head. Live your life. You’re happy? Be happy. I’m happy for you. And you know Suzy would be happy for you. Suzy loved for everybody to be in love.”

  “I talk to her sometimes, Mommy. Does that make me meshugah?”

  “Of course not,” she said. “You talked to her every day of your life for thirty-two years. You can’t just quit cold turkey.”

  “What if Norman goes to Argentina and I never see him again?”

  “Then you’ll be happy with someone else,” she said. “There’s other fish in the sea.”

  “Not like this fish. This is an extremely good fish.”

  She didn’t say anything about the difference in our ages. Or that he wasn’t Jewish. Mom and Daddy had mellowed, I think. Issues that once seemed worth arguing over were no longer worth a disturbance of our fragile peace.

  Norman called the next day. “Come over and watch the election results. Bring your boy with you.”

  “No,” I said flatly. “I’ll get a babysitter.”

  “I’d like to meet him.”

  “You will. If you call me when you get back from Argentina.”

  “I said I’ll call you. That’s my word.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Norman, but this is my son. If you’re not ready to eat dinner with us in a public place, you don’t need to be in his life.”

  “I can respect that,” he said tightly.

  “Thank you.”

  We shared election night. Missed the returns. Woke up to find Reagan ready to restore hopes of solvency to my father and his fellow American Dreamers.

  Norman asked me to go with him to the airport the next day. We had lunch with his daughter Cindy before he caught his flight to South America. The little girl I remembered from Neiman Marcus had evolved into an articulate, poised young woman just out of college, ready to take on the world. I suppose there was potential for awkwardness there—I was closer to Cindy’s age than I was to Norman’s, and things seemed to be moving pretty fast—but Cindy knew about Suzy, and because she had a sister she loved more than life, she met me with warmth and compassion.

  I don’t remember how the conversation meandered up to it, but we were talking about the general concept of stepparenting, and she asked me if I thought it was possible to truly love someone else’s child. I’d been wondering about that myself; as hungry as I was for love in those days, Eric’s well-being was my first concern. It felt so good to be head over heels that, selfishly, I didn’t want to complicate things by piling a fleet of toy trucks and building blocks in Norman’s lap. More important, I wasn’t willing to risk Eric’s heart being broken. I was already out there—ahead of myself—and there was no turning back, but I wasn’t going to take Eric out there on the limb with me until I knew the answer to Cindy’s question.

  “Is it possible to truly love someone else’s child?”

  I looked at this girl who was the reflection of a woman I’d always admired and the man I’d decided I couldn’t live without.

  “It’s possible,” I said. “In fact, if you really love someone, … you can’t help it.”

  A few days later, I got one of those crackly, echoing overseas phone calls we were grateful to get back then.

  “Norman? Are you all right? How’s the tournament?”

  “It’s good. Are you still single?”

  “So far. Hurry back.”

  “I will.”

  He wrote me a letter telling me how beautiful it was and how beautif
ul I was and how much he wished we were together there. I wrote back in kind and heard not another word for eight interminable days. I was about to crawl out of my skin when he called me from Chicago.

  “I’m back. I missed you.”

  “I missed you, too, Norman. I can’t wait to see you.”

  “We’re having dinner,” he said. “Bring Eric.”

  In the early 1950s, a Dallas socialite named Nancy Ann Smith attended a spectacular charity ball at the Waldorf-Astoria. Swept up in the spectacle of New York City’s upper crust in all its glory—and duly impressed by the amount of money raised for disadvantaged children—she returned to Texas, rallied a contingent of ladies who were up to her standards, and organized the first annual Crystal Charity Ball. The Crystal Ball quickly became the holiday event to see and be seen at, and in the fifty-odd years since then, the ball and related fashion shows, silent auctions, and luncheons have generated over $88 million to benefit children’s charities in the Dallas area.

  When Norman asked me to go with him, he felt the need to add, “The other lady I asked couldn’t go.”

  I guess this was his way of applying the brakes, letting me know he wasn’t about to be roped into anything.

  “Norman,” I said with an exaggerated sigh. “For the last time. I said I’d marry you. You don’t have to keep trying to impress me.”

  I loved seeing the startled look on his face when I teased him like that. Women on the prowl were supposed to be subtle about it. Don’t scare the man off, heavens no. Norman liked it that I had no intention of prowling. And I wouldn’t have been in love with a man who was that easily scared off.

  I’d been to the Crystal Ball back in my Neiman Marcus days and to what felt like a thousand tony charity galas, brunches, and lunches since then. After a while they all started to blur together, but this one I do remember. Norman had been late with his RSVP, and the event had been oversold, so we were seated at one of the extra tables outside the ballroom. I’m sure the rest of the partygoers out in the hall were disgruntled about the arrangement, but we were thrilled. Not a soul got in or out of that ballroom without passing directly by us, and we made the most of the opportunity to meet and greet everyone.