I Was a Dancer - Jacques D'Amboise [197]
That evening, Richard Dryden from NYCB called. “I’ve got bad news,” he intoned, in his singsong voice. “I know, I know,” I barked out, “Melissa’s dying.”
I had not been in touch with Milly (except for an occasional phone call) in almost twenty years, and now I’m getting all these messages? “Go see her!” I thought.
I purchased a plane ticket to Greensboro, North Carolina, rented a car, and drove to Wake Forest Hospital. Milly’s daughter, Jennifer, was on the same flight. When we got to the hospital room, Don, who is partially deaf and suffering from diabetes, was slumped dejectedly in a chair. Melissa, weighing some sixty-seven pounds, lay in bed with an enormous oxygen mask that seemed larger than her tiny head. She had patches of straggly hair, dyed jet-black, that looked like strands of seaweed on her sweaty forehead. She looked simian, and the band that held the oxygen mask in place irritated her scalp, so she was continually fiddling with it.
Milly looked up at me, took a few gulps of oxygen from the mask, pulled it from her mouth, and said, “Jacques? Oh my God, Jacques! You came down for my last dance.” Back she went for more oxygen, then continued. “Don! Jenny! Is he staying overnight? If he is, there’s a pot roast in the freezer.” Puff, puff. “Just put it in the microwave!” Puff, puff. We all made small talk, reminiscing about ballet, fellow dancers, and grandchildren.
Shortly, a drained Milly announced to me, “I’ve always loved you—you were my best friend. I loved you first.” Don, slouching in his chair, snapped to the vertical, eyeballs popping. Milly continued, “My husband was second.”
I quickly corrected, “Second to your husband! Don was always leading the pack.” She stared at me for almost a minute, puff, puff, off went the mask, and she declared, “That’s not what I said.” Later, Carrie commented, “Of course, she was right. You knew her over five years before she ever met Don. That’s what she’s saying.”
On July 28, 1950, we were gathering on the stage of the Royal Opera House in London for morning class when someone announced that it was my birthday. “Hey everybody, Jacques just turned sixteen.” “Oh!” Melissa cried out. “Sweet sixteen! I bet he’s never been kissed. Well, come here, honey, I’m going to show you how it’s done. And, as your birthday present, I’m going to kiss you every day for a whole year!” I got that first kiss, and at the next morning’s class, awaited the second with passion. Well, the morning kisses lasted less than a week. On the sixth day, she grabbed my face, covered it with kisses, including my ears, and announced, “All right, honey, that’s it, and it’s gonna have to last you for the year!” With the entire company laughing, she delivered the coup de grâce, “When you’re seventeen, maybe I’ll have something else for you!” I became Milly’s pet—she said I was like her Saint Bernard, hanging around, waiting.
In her hospital room that August of 2006, I leaned over her to say goodbye, kissing her wet, plastered forehead, then sat for a moment on the edge of her bed. “Milly, this is goodbye. I guess I won’t see you again.”
She answered, “Well, it’s a mystery, and I’m going to go find out. You know all this bullshit about the afterlife? Well, there is one. It’s what’s left behind, from the way you lived. We did a good job. Goodbye.”
NDI Goes On
I took the example of the Sturm und Drang surrounding Balanchine’s demise as to who would lead NYCB in the future, and thought about NDI: “Don’t wait. Set up your replacement.” So I asked Ellen Weinstein if she would share with me the responsibility to run NDI, and if she wanted, to take over. That was almost two decades ago, and one