It was June of 1968, and I was fleeing for my life, carrying my
two-month-old, baby daughter. My brother had managed to scrape together
enough money for a first class ticket on an airplane traveling from
Atlanta to Detroit. My first marriage had become too dangerous, and as I
flew home to be with my family, I felt very agitated. Anything, God, I
silently prayed. Anything to break the monotony of my own tortured
thoughts.
At that moment, my baby bobbed over toward a smoker, a
bit of drool dripping from her chin. As she studied him with wide-eyed
wonder, she let out an enormous belch, right in his face! It was all I
could do to keep from laughing! The man gave a disgusted grunt, and
stepping over us, he retreated down the isle into the back of the plane.
I never saw him again.
Behind me, across the isle, I heard
someone laughing. Turning to look at him, I saw a man with a beet red
face, nearly helpless with amusement. Our eyes locked, and we both
cracked up.
"Out of the mouths of babes!" said my conspirator,
with a wicked twinkle in his eye. We laughed for some time, and then we
began to visit. He was heading home to visit his parents in Detroit,
Michigan. My daughter and I were also on our way home to stay with my
parents, who lived just southwest of Detroit.
"What a beautiful
child," he said, gazing at my little girl, with her soft dark curls and
her big brown eyes. I agreed. Something about this man was vaguely
familiar, but I just couldn't place him. We talked. He was warm, kind,
and funny. I was pensive from time to time, but it was a relief to have
a kindred soul to distract me from my troubles.
I introduced
myself, and he told me that his friends called him "Chuck." As we were
visiting, I just could not get out of my mind, that I knew this man from
somewhere. I certainly knew no one who traveled first class, and it
would have been unlikely that we had ever met. He was traveling from Los
Angeles. I was traveling from the south, and we had no similar points of
reference, except Atlanta.
His voice was mesmerizing. It was so
familiar. Strong and evenly tempered. Where had I heard that voice? All
of a sudden, I knew him! I was sitting across from a very famous man.
Charlton Heston! I couldn't believe it, and we were talking like we
were old friends! Should I tell him that I recognized him? What could I
say?! "I just loved you in The Ten Commandments?!" How stupid would that
sound? Tell him that he was the famous Charlton Heston? I don't think
so. I was pretty certain that he knew exactly who he was. I didn't
think that he needed me to inform him. And breaking into his privacy, to
ask for an autograph, was simply not going to happen. So, I never said a
word.
He was charming and kind. He held my little girl, and he
played the typical baby games, speaking to her in a warm and coaxing
way. She crowed in his face and giggled. I don't remember what we
talked about. Ordinary things. We visited for three and a half hours. I
didn't tell him that I was fleeing for my life, and he never told me
that he was a famous movie star.
All too soon our trip was over.
The plane landed and we both got our carry-ons. Mine was a diaper bag.
His was something more Samsonite. He gathered his things, and I picked
up my infant daughter. He left the plane to be greeted by the press and
cameras. I left to obscurity. We both hugged our families, and my last
sight of him was to see him smile and nod his head at me, as he began to
answer questions from someone holding a microphone. I smiled back, and
we parted forever.
I didn't watch the news. I didn't see the
interview. I don't know the rest of his story. I did tell my parents,
who doubted that the man was famous. After all, on the plane we were
simply two travelers, passing time. Somehow, this event was a pivotal
point in my life. I had respected the privacy of a famous man, simply
because I could. After eleven months of married hell, he had made me
feel, well, normal.
Now, that he has passed-on, I remember a man
who gave me my first glimpse into a normal life, one where humor and
kindness saved the day. Mr. Heston could have been aloof and superior,
but somehow I don't think that was a part of his character. Often in the
tumultuous days of my bitter divorce, I would think of that very famous
man, who touched my life with so much grace.
Now, nearly forty
years later, it occurs to me, how blessed I am, that I did not invade
the privacy of that famous man. He gave me a precious memory, and, by
the way, he did give me his autograph. He wrote his autograph upon my
life!
Jaye Lewis
jayelewis@PROTECTED
