She looked up, startled. “Okay, I bite. Why?”
“You can’t keep your mom out of your life forever.”
“You did.”
“Yeah. I did.” Eddie’s face darkened. “And it was only after she passed away a few years ago that I learned from Viola how hurt she was that she hadn’t been there to see me get married, or to play with her grandchildren. I thought I was doing the right thing by you kids, but I realize now I was just doing it selfishly, for me.”
“So you think I’m being selfish?” Toni said, a bit tartly.
“Look, I know how you feel—I was pissed off that my mom married Sergei so soon after my dad died, but now I realize she didn’t have any choice. She had three kids to feed and could barely do it working as a steam press operator. Sergei offered security. I just didn’t get along with him, that’s all, so I scrammed.”
Sarcastically Toni asked, “You think Mom has some real good reason to tell me why she abandoned us to run off with Mr. Brylcreem of 1945?”
“She did have her reasons. But you don’t even have to listen to them, especially not on your wedding day. Just invite her. Let her back into your life for that one thing, and see where it goes from there. And at least that won’t be on your conscience, when you’re my age.”
Toni hated the idea. But she agreed to think about it.
* * *
Sunday was laundry day in the Stopka household, and everyone but Eddie seemed to clear out early that morning and find things to do, leaving their father to do the washing, drying, and folding. Toni took Jack to Callahan’s for lunch, so it was left to Eddie to carry the laundry basket up from the laundry room and then, as Adele had done for years and for which Eddie was beginning to realize she had not received adequate esteem, deliver the clean clothing to the appropriate closet or chest of drawers.
This being the first laundry day since Jack’s return, Eddie had to open several drawers in his son’s bureau in order to figure out what went where. The third one was Jack’s underwear drawer, but as Eddie opened it and began to make room for a stack of undershirts, his hand brushed against something that was both hard and soft. In the back, tucked in a corner behind some clean socks and jockey shorts, were two small, felt-covered boxes. Eddie took them out and opened the first, which contained a ribbon of red attached to a bronze star. The second held a purple ribbon attached to a gold heart-shaped medal.
A Purple Heart—and a Bronze Star, awarded for valor in combat.
Eddie was astonished. Jack called himself a coward—but here were two medals he’d been awarded for heroism.
What the hell was going on?
* * *
Eddie returned the medals to Jack’s hiding place and waited the rest of the week, trying to figure out what to say and when to say it. On Saturday, when he returned home from the bar, it was half past midnight and Toni was fast asleep. But Jack was sitting on the couch in the living room, watching, of all things, Wrestling from the Marigold Arena on DuMont. On the nine-inch screen it appeared that Lou Thesz was fighting “Farmer” Don Marlin. “You’re still up,” Eddie said.
“Couldn’t sleep.”
“Why are you watching this? You hate wrestling.”
“I hated high school wrestling. These are professional thespians.”
Eddie came over and said, “Can I talk to you about something?”
“Sure, go ahead.”
Eddie drew a short breath. “Jack, I didn’t set out to do this, but—when I was putting away your laundry last weekend, I found your—your medals.”
Jack stiffened but said nothing, just kept watching Farmer Don Marlin grunt and groan as Lou Thesz pinned him briefly to the canvas.
“Why didn’t you tell us about them?” Eddie asked.
“Because they don’t mean anything, that’s why.”
“You must’ve done something to merit them.”
“They’re a joke!” Jack snapped.
“The Army didn’t think so.”
Jack’s temper flared. “Fine! You want to hear the joke? It’s a damn funny one, you’ll laugh your ass off. You really want to hear it?”
He glared as if daring Eddie to listen. Eddie turned down the volume on the TV, and as the tiny black-and-white figures silently grappled with each other, Eddie sat down on the couch. “Okay. I could use a good laugh.”
“Fine,” Jack said. “I’ve already told you about how the cold turned men into Popsicles. Did I mention the guy who slept in his combat boots? Inside his sleeping bag?”
“No.”
“That’s not what got him kicked out of the Army, though. See, the frostbite in his boots was so bad that when the doc took them off, there was no skin left, just a few pounds of ground meat.”
He looked at Eddie as if to say, Heard enough?
Eddie said, deadpan: “You call that funny? What else you got?”
Jack let out a breath, resigned to telling this now.
“Okay. So it’s forty below and my regiment’s been marching for five straight days. We were told to take this hill—somebody named it Hamhock Hill because he said it looked like a pig’s ass. I remember Bernstein asked the second looie if he could sit this one out: ‘This hill ain’t kosher,’ he said.”
Eddie laughed. “Now that’s funny.”
Jack allowed himself a thin smile. “Yeah, the lieutenant laughed too, then told him to get his ass in gear. The Chinese were dug in on the hill, so our tanks went in first, trying to soften up their artillery, to be followed by grunts like me. Well, if that artillery was soft I’d hate to see the hard stuff. The damn mortars went right over the heads of the tanks and exploded all around us. You know one’s coming your way because the shell cuts through the air like a banshee. Went on like that for half a fucking hour.”
“Jesus,” Eddie said, “how did you stand it?”
“Oh, I wanted to shit my pants plenty of times,” Jack admitted. “But then you look like a pussy to your pals, so you suck in your gut and take it. ’Course, they’re all doing the same thing. Ninety percent of bravery in combat is trying not to look like a pussy in front of your friends.
“Finally, the tanks take out one of the enemy positions and the looie tells us to get going. So we charge up the hill, firing our burp guns at enemy positions, hoping one out of four bullets does some damage.
“My buddy Dominguez was on my left as we went up, and then out of my left ear I hear a banshee shriek, louder and closer than before. It was just a knee-jerk reaction—I grabbed Dom by the arm, yanked him toward me, and a few seconds later the spot where he’d been standing is a smoldering crater. We dive to the ground as dirt, rock, and shrapnel go flying over our heads. When we’re finally clear of it, we get up.
“Dominguez says to me, ‘Jesus Christ, man, thanks.’ There’s a raw recruit on my right who’s seen the whole thing, and he says, ‘Good work, man,’ and reaches out to shake my hand. I take it and start to say something, but before I can finish there’s another loud wail, and—”
He paused, staring at something a thousand miles away.
“The recruit just—explodes. In a red fog. Some goddamn mortar shell just—tore him to ribbons. The concussion threw me to the ground, and when the smoke cleared I opened my eyes. I’m covered with blood and skin and—guts. And my hand’s still holding something.
“I look down and see—I’m still holding the recruit’s hand. His arm’s been severed at the elbow. And I’m holding it. I’m covered in blood and bile and bits of intestine, and I’m holding his goddamned arm.” His face was harrowed; anguished. “I started to scream. Had to be carried off the field. They tell me I didn’t stop screaming for twenty minutes.” He gazed down at his hands twitching in his lap. “My hands haven’t stopped trembling since.”
Eddie, overwhelmed, could only say, “Oh, Jesus, Jack—I’m sorry…”
On the tiny television screen, the silvery image of one of the wrestlers slung the other across his shoulders, then threw him to the canvas. Jack got up sudde
nly, went to the TV, and switched it off.
“So that’s the joke,” he said. “I save my buddy’s life—another guy gets blown to hell for congratulating me—and I come apart as completely as if the mortar hit me. What a riot, huh? The psych detachment tried to patch me back together, and they did to a point, but—a soldier who can’t hold a gun isn’t much use to the Army, and I was due for rotation soon anyway, so they sent me home with a couple of medals that don’t mean shit.”
“That’s not true,” Eddie said. “You saved Dom’s life. You’re a hero.”
At that there was fire and shame in Jack’s eyes. “For Chrissake, don’t use that word!” he snapped. “All those stupid comic books I used to read—all the heroes would save the girl, fight battle after battle, month after month—and me, I save one person’s life, then crack like an egg!”
“Comic characters aren’t real, Jack, you know that.”
“Then how about the men I served with? All those guys who climbed hill after hill, charged into the thick of it, saw shit a hundred times worse than I saw—and went right back on the front lines the next day! But me, I fell apart.” He sank into a chair. “I couldn’t take it like they could. I cracked like an egg,” he repeated, breaking down into sobs.
Eddie came over, stood in front of him, and said: “So what?”
Jack looked up, uncomprehending.
“So fucking what that you cracked? Everybody’s got their limits, Jack, and you reached yours. After charging up hills into enemy fire for—what, over a year?—you save your buddy’s life, see some poor bastard die horribly in front of you—and you broke down. Hell, I might’ve done the same.”
“No you wouldn’t. Not you.”
“Bullshit,” Eddie said. “I worked on planes that had the tailgunner’s brains splattered across the canopy. The first time I saw it—had to hose it out, like cleaning out a horse stall—I threw up in the toilet. I did that every day for the next week. Now, that’s nothing compared to what you went through. I was never tested like you were, Jack, so I don’t know where my breaking point would be—but I’m damn sure I’ve got one. Everybody does.
“Heroes don’t have to go on proving they’re heroes, like Sergeant York or Superman,” Eddie said gently. “Once is all it takes. You’re my hero, Jack.”
Jack looked gratefully into his father’s face—and began to weep. Eddie squatted down and draped his arms across Jack’s shoulders, comforting him as he had when as a boy he’d come home after falling off his bicycle, or sporting a bloody nose after a fight with a bully. He let him cry then, and he let him cry now. Eddie knew that he himself had kept too many things bottled up inside him for too long, and he wouldn’t let Jack do the same. “Let it out, son,” he said gently. “Let it out before it poisons you.”
* * *
On a sunny, breezy day in June, within the elegant nave of the Epiphany Catholic Church in Cliffside Park, Toni and Jimmy—she in a white taffeta wedding dress, he in a black suit and red tie—stood expectantly before the altar as Father Joseph Manz told them, “Please join your right hands together.” Then, to Jimmy: “Repeat after me: I, James Robert Russo, take thee, Antoinette Cherie Stopka, for my lawful wife—”
Jimmy looked into Toni’s eyes and repeated, “I, James Robert Russo, take thee, Antoinette Cherie Stopka, for my lawful wife … to have and to hold, from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health … until death do us part.”
Father Manz turned to Toni, had her recite the same vow, then declared, “I join you together in marriage in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen.”
He sprinkled the couple with holy water, then took the wedding ring from the outstretched palm of Jimmy’s best man, his brother Tim.
“Bless, O Lord, this ring, which we bless in Thy name, that she who shall wear it, keeping true faith unto her spouse, may abide in Thy peace and in obedience to Thy will, and ever live in mutual love. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”
Manz sprinkled the ring with holy water in the form of a cross, then handed it to the groom, who placed it on the third finger of Toni’s left hand and said, “With this ring I thee wed and I plight unto thee my troth.”
“In the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Ghost, amen.”
After this came the Nuptial Blessing, followed by Mass for the bride and bridegroom. During the processional to the altar, Toni had been too overwhelmed and elated to take much notice of who was sitting in the pews; and once at the altar she had been facing first the priest, then Jimmy. Now, during the Mass, she was able to look out into the congregation and pick out familiar faces on the bride’s side of the aisle: Minette Dobson, Bunty Hill, her father, Lehua, Aunt Vi and Uncle Hal and their kids, Grandma Marie … and beside her grandmother, someone she had not seen for eight years.
Her mother.
Adele was now forty-two years old, but Toni was surprised to see how little she had changed. Her hair was still long, wavy, and blonde—Miss Clairol might have had something to do with that—and she looked stunning in a creamy pastel sweater and halter-neck dress with a full circle skirt and matching hat. Even from here Toni could see the proud, pleased smile on her face, making Toni suddenly happy that she had invited her.
Later, at the wedding reception, Toni, Jimmy, and the rest of the wedding party stood in a receiving line at the door, shaking hands with guests as they entered. When it was Adele’s turn she cupped Toni’s hand in hers and said, “You look so beautiful, honey. Thank you so much for inviting me.” She kissed Toni on the cheek and moved on. “I’ll see you later,” Toni called after. Adele smiled and nodded.
An hour later, after the toasts and the dinner and the cutting of the cake, Toni was able to mingle with the guests, going from table to table to chat briefly at each one. She spoke first with her father, Lehua, Jack, Minette, and Bunty, but made a point to go next to the table where Adele sat with Grandma Marie, Uncle James and Uncle Ralph, and their families.
Toni sat next down to her mother, took her hand and said, “I’m glad you could come. You look pretty beautiful yourself.”
“Thanks. It takes a lot more work than it used to.” Adele laughed, then said, “You know, this isn’t the first time I’ve seen you since … I left.”
Toni blinked. “It isn’t?”
“I saw you perform at the Steel Pier last year,” Adele said. “I was in the crowd. You were amazing, Toni, just amazing. I was so proud of you.”
Surprised, Toni said, “Well, thanks. Were you and Lorenzo playing Atlantic City too?”
Adele laughed. “I haven’t been with Lorenzo for years. I’m performing solo now.”
“Solo? As what?”
“A magician—a lady magician. I met one years ago, at Palisades, and never forgot her. There are some of us around—Dell O’Dell, Suzy Wandas, Celeste Evans…”
“I had no idea there were any at all.”
“We’re a select few. Like lady high divers.” She leaned in to Toni. “You’re a born performer, Toni. You got that from me.”
Toni found herself bristling at that. “You never wanted me to dive. You didn’t think it was ladylike.”
“I know. I was so foolish, I’m sorry…”
“Dad and Bunty are the ones who encouraged me,” Toni said, “and now you’re trying to take credit for my success?”
“No—no, honey, I didn’t mean to imply that—”
Toni stood.
“I’m sure you’re a great magician, Mom,” Toni said in a sudden fit of temper. “You’re terrific at making yourself disappear.”
“Toni…” Adele said plaintively.
But it was too late—Toni had turned on her heel and was walking, quickly but coolly, on to the next table.
Marie put a hand on her daughter’s arm consolingly. “She’s under stress. It’s her wedding day.”
“No, she’s right,” Adele said quietly. “I do a great vanishing act. So great”—her eyes miste
d over—“she’ll never forget it.”
23
Palisades, New Jersey, 1962
IN 1956 PALISADES’ PUBLICIST, Sol Abrams, engineered what was arguably the grandest public relations stunt in the park’s history: a fifteen-hundred-pound circus elephant water-skiing on pontoons, towed across the Hudson by motorboat to promote the park’s April opening. The sheer audacity of it landed the elephant in newsreels, magazines, and newspapers across the country. But the best publicity by far the park ever received was a gift that arrived in March of 1962 from Swan Records, singer Freddy Cannon, and a young songwriter named Chuck Barris:
Last night I took a walk in the park
A swingin’ place called Palisades Park …
“Palisades Park,” intended to be the B side of Cannon’s single, was a breakout hit, quickly rising to number three on Billboard’s music charts. The bouncy, up-tempo tune, punctuated by the sound of a calliope and the rattle and roar of a real roller coaster, told of a young man who comes to Palisades looking for girls and rides the shoot-the-chute beside a cute one, with whom, in short order, he finds himself holding hands.
It was a story that had played out countless times at the real park, and its breezy rhythms captured the spirit of excitement, fun, and romance that generations of teenagers had come to associate with Palisades:
You’ll never know how great a kiss can feel
When you stop at the top of a Ferris wheel
When I fell in love … down at Palisades Park.
Even music fans who had never before heard of Palisades Park could identify with it, and the song quickly became an international success—selling two million copies by the end of that summer—and was welcomed with open arms by Irving Rosenthal as the sweetest “gag” he never had to pay for. He invited Cannon to sing “Palisades Park” at Palisades Park over the Fourth of July weekend, where thousands would turn out to hear him.
And by this time, Palisades Amusement Park had really become the “swingin’ place” of which Cannon sang. Starting in the mid-1950s, the Rosenthals began to capitalize on the burgeoning popularity of rock and roll, hiring local radio deejays Murray Kaufman, better known as “Murray the K,” and Bruce Morrow, “Cousin Brucie,” to host concerts on the free-act stage by such rising young stars as Bobby Rydell, Fabian, the Shirelles, Bill Haley and His Comets, Frankie Avalon, and a local Tenafly girl made good named Lesley Gore, singing her hit “It’s My Party.” For one season, singer Clay Cole hosted his own daily television show broadcast from Palisades, featuring bright new names like Chubby Checker (who performed the “Twist” for the first time on the show), Frankie Valli, Brian Hyland, and Neil Sedaka.
Palisades Park Page 42
