I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [105]
Later, when I was waiting with Dick at Lenox Hill Hospital with a hot pad on my back, Dr. Buele popped out of the operating room and announced two words, “Twins … girls!” We were all stunned; so was Carrie.
A week later Carrie was home with the girls—we named them Charlotte and Catherine. Thank God Carrie’s mother, Ona, and the Boss were there to help, as I was off to dance in Munich, leaving Miracle George ecstatic with his new bitty playmates and Chris, suspicious.
But soon Diane Smarr would enter our life. Sent by the gods to enrich and transform our lives. She was a teenager hired as a babysitter to help us; she became and continues to be part of our family. A bundle of caring goodness, Diane is spiritual, and at her center she carries wisdom, morality, modesty, and a sense of humor. There are none that I admire more. Over the next half century Diane married twice and had two children, Heidi and Shaw. I eventually enticed young Shaw to dance, but Heidi slipped through my fingers.
Diane Smarr, 1964 (image credit 11.2)
The world of dance and theater rubbed off on Diane. She once produced, directed, and choreographed a production for her church called The Devil on Trial. Sort of a street theater in a church. She cast her fellow worshippers brilliantly. If it had been taped for television an Emmy could have been garnered.
Carrie did return to the NYCB, but as the company photographer, not a dancer. She had always dabbled as an amateur, but now a pro, having for several years studied at the photographic institute in Rockport, Maine. Her mentors and teachers were the tops in their field, in particular Ernst Haas, who took her under his wing. Our homes, and many of our friends’ homes, are enhanced by her art.
Diane Smarr with the twins, 1965 (image credit 11.3)
My father rarely came to see me perform. If I asked, “Pa, do you want to come to the ballet?” he would gaze past me and answer, “What’s on the program? I don’t know if there’s anything I want to see.” Every once in a while, he would show up and inform an usherette, “I’m Andy Dam-boize, my son’s dancing,” and get a free seat. When I would see him later, he would wait for me to ask, “Did you like the ballet, Pop?” In reply, I would get, “Oh, that partner you were dancing with … what’s her name, Melissa Hayden? She’s a hell of a dancer.” Or, “That little guy, Eddie Villella, boy can he jump!” or, “Francisco Moncion, he’s a handsome-looking guy. He was the star of the evening. What is he? Spanish, black?” Never a word about me or my performance. And yet I imagined he told his friends and acquaintances that his son was a star in the ballet. “That’s Pop,” I thought. I would like to believe he was proud of me, but letting me know that would have meant admitting that the Boss was right, all those dancing lessons had paid off. As for Carrie, Pop never said a word to me about her. I vaguely remember him standing on the outskirts at our wedding—hiding from the Boss, who sat in the front row, sobbing loudly throughout the ceremony.
Boss devoted herself to nursing her private clients and saving money. With her baby (me) out of the house, all her children married off, and Pop dumped, full-time work became all-time. She made herself nurse’s outfits, complete with stylish nurse’s hats—costuming herself as a chic, French Canadian Florence Nightingale. Dressed for the role, she ministered, gave her patients orders and their shots, sewed clothes, shopped, cooked (they ate fantastically), cleaned, redecorated their houses, did secretarial work, gave advice, ran errands, and emptied bedpans—twenty-four-hour duty, seven days a week. When the show closed (a patient recovered or died), her performance ended, and she would be laid off, but never for long. She’d find a new patient, don her little white uniform, and resume the life of nurturing and bossing.
She insisted on being paid in cash and invested every nickel in blue-chip stocks, for close to eight years. “I don’t need anything. I make everything myself and save every penny. I